Seeing Red
by Morgan72uk
Summary: Women with red hair are being killed, the victims look a lot like the Director of NCIS and Gibbs doesn't believe in coincidences. This is going to get messy and complicated  and it might not end well. Jibbs
1. Day 1: evening

Author: Morgan72uk

Rating: T

Summary: Women with red hair are being killed and no one thinks it's a coincidence that the victims look like the Director of NCIS. This is going to get complicated and very messy and there are no guarantees that everyone will make it out in one piece.

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, don't have any money - and I probably shouldn't be doing this.

A/N So - I wasn't going to write this story, but somehow I just couldn't help myself, I'm drawn to messed up relationships and I things don't get much messier than Gibbs and Jen. I should probably point out that this isn't a casefile, though it sort of involves an investigation - I will do my best to avoid procedural howlers, but they might slip through - also, I'm a Brit, so I might not always get the Americanisms right (though I probably won't get things as wrong as Ziva does).

I've been unsure about when this story is set - the end of season 3 and the beginning of season 4 definitely happened in this universe. As I don't know how the situation with the Frog and his daughter plays out I'm going to leave that alone - though I do like Madame Director with a few dark edges. It is a Jibbs story - but maybe not with a tradionally happy ending.

**Seeing Red – part 1**

Perhaps he should have known, perhaps his famous gut should have warned him that something was coming, something corrosive and evil. But, while he believed in that gut instinct, he likely wouldn't have believed in a premonition, even if he'd had one – which he hadn't. In fact, when the call came he'd been working on his boat and all he felt was a vague sense of irritation that his evening had been interrupted.

On a good day Leroy Jethro Gibbs might have spared half a glance for his surroundings, he might have appreciated being out of doors on a fine evening in late summer. But, in his mind this place had already become a crime scene, already his attention had moved to the victim, though he hadn't even seen the body yet. Already he had determined that they would get justice for her – and he was not a man who welcomed the idea of failure.

The setting sun filtered through the leaves, shafts of light illuminating the gloom of the small copse. Somewhere nearby there was a stream and the sound of running water broke the silence. But, what should have been a scene of peace and tranquillity instead bore the marks of violent death. The air carried the slight scent of decay and the birds and animals had fled – disturbed by the intrusion of fear and violence into their midst.

He was ahead of his team as they walked through the copse on the way to the place the body had been found. Unfortunately he was still close enough to have to listen to Tony teasing McGee, interspersed with snatches of Ducky telling Ziva about something that might, after all, turn out to be relevant.

The young cop who'd been first to respond was coming to a halt – gesturing ahead of her to the already taped off area. He could tell she wasn't quite sure what to make of the Navy cops who'd been summoned as soon as she and her colleagues has found the Navy id next to the body. They got a lot of that.

As she stepped aside to let him get a look at the victim, Gibbs opened his mouth to start giving orders and then stopped – too shocked to even contemplate speaking.

Behind him someone dropped a case, he heard Ducky's shocked exclamation; but it all felt like an echo, something happening to someone else. He couldn't speak; his throat had tightened up, but had he been capable of speech he might have been moved to say that, in death, Jenny Shepherd looked like an angel.

She looked younger, less burdened – not at all like a woman who knew a great deal about secrets and darkness. He was glad, which was absurd because he knew that Jen would not have wanted to look peaceful in death. She would have wanted to go down fighting, raging against whatever or whoever had claimed her life. He couldn't even spare the time to mourn her now; he had to focus on finding whoever had done this. He had to control his anger and his need to avenge her.

He blinked, his vision cleared and he realised that she looked younger for a reason. Mere seconds had passed; the waves of shock were still coming off the rest of his team. As he stepped closer to the body someone, DiNozzo he thought, tried to speak to him – but he waved him away and crouched down beside the body.

He looked up and down – carefully; critically and only when he was certain did he brush a finger against her hairline – and wasn't surprised when it moved.

"It isn't the Director," he glanced back over his shoulder at his team, "she looks like her, but she's younger, shorter and a little heavier – and she's wearing a wig. It's not her – OK?"

He looked at each team member – letting them see his certainty and, as they believed him, their shock disappeared and their professionalism kicked in. His turned to the cop, who clearly had no idea what had just happened, "she looks like a colleague," he said briefly and then before she could ask anymore questions he started giving orders. "DiNozzo, photographs, McGee – talk to the hikers who found the body, Ziva – check the periphery."

He watched them for a moment and then yielded his place to Ducky. His old friend opened his mouth to speak – and then clearly thought better of it, but Gibbs didn't have time for whatever the Doctor was worried about, instead he fished out his cell phone and dialled a familiar number.

"Where is she?" he demanded as soon as the call was answered, cutting straight across Cynthia's phone manner.

"Agent Gibbs, the Director is just on her way out to a meeting and…"

"Find her and put her on, it can't wait."

But apparently it had to, at least for a few moments. While he waited, he watched his team – but almost without realising it, his gaze kept drifting back to the body. She really did look a lot like Jen, though the hair helped with the resemblance and her body shape was different. Even with a gap of 8 years he knew enough about that to make a decent comparison.

"What can I do for you Agent Gibbs?" She sounded irritated, downright snippy in fact, which was probably the final thing to convince him that she was still very much alive – and kicking.

"You need to cancel your meeting and lock down the building. No one gets in and no one leaves – including you. Not until we get back."

"I can't cancel my meeting, it's with…"

"I don't care who it's with – I am standing looking at a body of a woman who bears more than a passing resemblance to you and has a Navy id. Someone made sure they got us here – they wanted to send us a message. Let's make sure we hear it." He flipped the phone shut before she could respond to that and crossed towards Ducky, who was bending over the body.

"What do you have?"

"From my preliminary examination it looks as though she was strangled," he gestured towards the livid marks around the victims neck, "but I'll know more when I get her back to autopsy."

"Weapon?"

"From what I can see so far, I'd say he used his hands." They shared a glance, manual strangulation was a very personal crime, "there may be more injuries."

"Defensive wounds?"

"Not so far – she could have been drugged," Gibbs nodded and then Ducky asked,

"Do you think the resemblance is a coincidence?" He sighed, already sure of the answer to that particular question – even if that was the only thing he was sure of right now.

"I don't believe in coincidences."

* * *

The last of the daylight had slipped away by the time they had finished at the crime scene. The echo of familiarity in the victim's features had already made this case a personal one, for all of them; no one was talking much and even Tony was subdued. They might all, at times, have had issues with the Director's decisions, might have complained, loudly, about her strictures. But that was internal, it resembled nothing so much as family squabbles and it was balanced by the knowledge that she used her contacts and her influence when they needed her to. They were allowed to complain about her, but when outsiders threatened her life then there was no question about whose side they came down on. 

The Agency was on lock down when they got back – and no one, including the Director, had left. Now that he was back on the premises Gibbs was prepared to lift some of the restrictions on his fellow agents – although as far as he was concerned the Director wasn't going anywhere.

He sent McGee down to Abby, with the evidence they'd collected at the scene, Tony and Ziva were on their way to Bethesda – to find out more about their victim who'd turned out to be a nurse stationed there. Which meant he was the lucky person who got to speak to Jen.

Cynthia was still at her desk and didn't make any attempt to stop him from going straight into the Director's office – which maybe should have warned him that something was wrong. But, when he saw who was sitting at her conference table he realised that while no one had left the building, someone had definitely arrived.

"Tobias,"

"Jethro," the two men exchanged nods – but Gibbs wasn't happy about arriving here to find the FBI waiting. He glanced over towards the desk, Jen was standing with her back to both of them, looking out of the windows. The desk lamp was on but the main lights were turned down low and the mood in the room was more than a little sombre.

"This is cosy," he said – trying to provoke the woman who, so far, had failed to respond to his appearance. He had been expecting to have to deal with her annoyance – but something had evidently happened before he got there. "The FBI interested in our new case?"

"Not exactly – it's more that it's our case," Fornell nodded towards the table and for the first time Gibbs noticed the two open files on the table. He took a step towards it, seeing the photos first.

"Tobias," he flicked another glance towards Jen, who still hadn't moved. He didn't like this, he didn't like that Jen hadn't spoken yet – she wasn't exactly a woman known for reticence. He didn't like that Fornell was here, with these files and that he'd brought them straight up to her. "Are you telling me that there are two other victims and we're just hearing about it now?" Fornell shifted in his seat, looking marginally uncomfortable,

"Look, no one connected the two cases until a couple of days ago; the first victim was Francine Harper – killed 2 months ago in DC, then Rebekah Murray – killed 2 weeks ago, in Nashua – both strangled. When her body was found, Francine's hair had been cut and dyed, Rebekah had red hair – but it had been cut. Both women were in their thirties and went missing approximately 24 hours before they died, both abducted during the day, as they were going about their normal lives."

Gibbs took a closer look at the photographs – noting the gash of red lipstick on the dead women's faces and forcing himself not to look over at the Director – knowing she wore the same shade.

"To be honest, the Bureau thought the perp was changing their appearance because of someone in his past, it didn't occur to anyone that we might be able to identify the woman he wanted them to look like. Not until I looked at the photographs and thought I saw – well," there was silence "and even then I wasn't sure - I thought it was a coincidence."

"Jethro doesn't believe in coincidences." Jen spoke for the first time, turning around at last. "So, assuming just this once, that he's right – what do we have?" She wasn't asking Fornell, her attention was entirely focussed on Gibbs and this was one of the times when he wasn't at all sure what she was thinking.

"So far, we appear to have three victims who bear some resemblance to you, arguably made to look more like you by cutting and /or dying their hair and this last time, with a wig. The most recent victim is a nurse at Bethesda – Lucy Simmonds, and apart from her hair, she could have been your sister. Not a coincidence – but it feels personal."

He was stating the obvious – but he suspected she knew that, she'd seen the files and had obviously drawn her own conclusions; there was no need to sugar coat things for her. "And I've been trying so hard not to make enemies recently," she remarked with only a trace of irony. "NCIS want jurisdiction," she continued, looking over at Fornell, "I assume that won't be a problem?"

"You can assume that," he responded. Gibbs rolled his eyes, recognising the grand standing for what it was and wondering if Tobias had suddenly developed a death wish. "I'll certainly make sure Langley are aware of your, interest."

"And will you also make sure that Langley know that I'll only co-operate with a NCIS investigation? Since this does seem to be about me, I imagine that will make things - difficult. I suppose you could slap a material witness order on me, force me to co-operate – but that feels messy, and I hate to see sister agencies argue when it's so, unnecessary."

"I thought you were trying not to make enemies."

"Did I say that?" She didn't even flinch, just raised an immaculate eyebrow at him – Gibbs had to admire the frost in her voice, he'd long since concluded that the woman had ice water in her veins. Fornell wasn't an idiot – he knew that she wouldn't change her mind and that in this case in would be very difficult to proceed without her co-operation. He shot Gibbs a sympathetic look, and shrugged.

"Fine – you get jurisdiction, I'll have the paperwork sent over – we'd like it if you kept us informed."

"Of course," now that she had got her own way, she was prepared to be magnanimous. On another day Jethro might even have been amused, the way a mouse was amused when the cat had picked something else to toy with.

When the door was closed and they were alone, Gibbs turned his attention back to Jen and found her looking down at the photos – she was tracing one of the images with her fingertip and for a split second, as long as it took to blink, her expression was vulnerable. But then it was gone. "So, Agent Gibbs – what do you think is going on?" His phone rang before he could answer and he flicked it open and listened to what DiNozzo had to say, frowning at the news, knowing how much it would complicate matters.

"The id is a plant," he told her when the call was over, "when DiNozzo and Ziva got to Bethesda, Lucy Simmonds was there – her bag was stolen 2 days ago, with her id in it. She was too scared to report it." Jen sighed,

"So, now the FBI are going to want their case back – I'll call Fornell."

"They aren't getting their case back, the planted id is the reason we need to keep it." She glanced down at the photographs again, two dead women gazing back her, a connection there that he couldn't fathom at the moment.

"You think this really has something to do with me Jethro – and don't tell me you don't believe in coincidences."

"OK, I won't tell you that. At the moment the evidence supports that theory – but as you know very well, at this stage in a case things can change rapidly. Hell, ten minutes ago I had no idea we were looking at 3 victims. It's too early to say anything for sure."

"You're going to look back through our old cases, see if anyone we put away has recently been released?" He nodded, it was clearly one of their next steps.

"I was going to put Ziva and DiNozzo on it when they get back – and we'll check out your anti-terror ops as well, talk to our 'sister agencies', see if anyone has come back on their watch lists recently."

"Some of that information is classified."

"But I have you – and Ziva, so I don't have to declassify it." He took a breath, half hoping she would work out the next bit for herself. But, when she showed no sign of having done so, he tilted his head, just a little. "And I'm going to need a list of anyone you've been involved with."

"You've got to be joking."

"You know I'm not." He wanted her to say something about only having one crazy ex-lover, but instead she nodded and turned back to her desk as though what he'd asked of her was the merest inconvenience.

"Fine, I'll have it for you in the morning." He watched without comment as she reached into the drawer at the side of her desk, took out her side arm, checked and loaded it before slipping it into the holster at her waist. He was relieved to see she was taking the situation seriously.

"You need to increase your personal security detail, change you schedule – until this is over."

"I know," she sat down behind her desk, put her glasses on and looked over them at him, "it's being dealt with, is there anything else?"

"Not at the moment." It was clearly gong to be business as usual – which was fine, right up until the moment that it wasn't. He turned, heading for the door – and then stopped and turned back. "We'll get him Jen."

"I know." She barely looked up at him, her attention fixed on the papers on her desk. He spared her one last glance before leaving. He might be able to tell when she was lying, but it had been a while since he'd been able to guess, with any confidence, what she was thinking. Which actually, was almost as worrying as the fact that there was a serial killer out there with a taste for red heads.

TBC


	2. Day 2: daytime

A/N - thanks for the reviews – Madame Director does seem to be kicking Gibbs around a bit in this part, but I promise he'll stage an impressive fight back.

**Seeing Red – part 2 **

_Day 2_

Her heels clicked on the tiles as she approached the doors to the autopsy suite. The noise was overly loud in the silence of the hallway, almost disrespectful; though there was not the slightest chance that she would wake anyone from their final rest.

She felt guilty, like an intruder; though she had every right to be here. But she was very aware that, under these circumstances, a visit to autopsy was evidence of a weakness she would rather not confess to. Which was why she'd waited until Gibbs was safely out of the building.

She paused when the door to the autopsy suite came into sight, her first visit here, years ago now, had been a spectacular failure. It was difficult to believe that she had ever been that young or that inexperienced – though given half a chance Jethro was more than capable of reminding her.

But she wasn't a probie anymore, she was the Director of NCIS, and in her time she had seen far worse things than the inside of an autopsy suite.

She increased her pace, ensuring that she strode purposefully through the doors, even though the only person on the other side was Ducky, and he was unlikely to be impressed by her show of confidence – he saw far too much of what went on beneath the surface.

"Director," Doctor Mallard looked up from the terminal he was seated at, "I'd like to say I'm surprised to see you, but actually I've been expecting you."

"It's disappointing to be so predictable."

"We'll make it our secret then," he smiled. "I thought you might want to see a copy of my autopsy report. I sent it up to Gibbs a little earlier, but I kept a copy – just for you." He handed her the file and she flicked through it, even though experience told her he'd likely walk her through the content anyway. "As I suspected, she was drugged, her system contained a significant amount of a rather strong sleeping tablet – which unfortunately is very commonly prescribed. Not enough to kill her, but certainly enough to render her unconscious. The other two victims had similar amounts of same drug in their system – I believe Abby is checking prescriptions now, but as I said, it is very common."

"And if you know where to look you can probably buy it without a prescription."

"Indeed – there were no signs of sexual assault, and the cause of death was definitely strangulation. I'm trying to extrapolate some physical characteristics from the marks on her throat and the indentations from his knees on her chest – but it's not an exact process."

"There doesn't seem to be a great deal to go on, does there?"

"Honestly – I'd hoped for more." He sighed, "I fear Gibbs is going to be disappointed. Unless Abby comes up with something."

Jen leant back against the autopsy table, there were no pictures in the file and she wondered if that was deliberate. "Did she really look like me Ducky?"

"Yes my dear, I'm afraid she did. It gave us all quite a shock, young Antony was silent for all of 45 seconds." She smiled, trying to appreciate his attempt at humour.

"Can I see her?"

"Are you sure you want to?"

"I think I need to."

"That wasn't what I asked. Director – this wasn't your fault."

"I know that Dr Mallard." The slight edge of command in her voice was unmistakable, a reminder that she was after all, 'the Director'. She thought about telling him that it wasn't a misplaced sense of guilt that made her want to see the body. Guilt was too simple an emotion, too uncomplicated. Instead she held his gaze with her own and when it was Ducky who looked away first she knew that she'd won, though it was hardly a victory to be proud of.

Looking at the body was like looking into a mirror – although she suspected she would ever again look so, fresh and clean. There was something very disturbing about seeing in a murder victim something that you knew you'd lost long ago. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she'd been hoping that this would all turn out to be a mistake, Gibbs being over-cautious or a screw up by the FBI. But the similarity was just too marked. At least she understood now why the team had been so affected by the sight of the victim, why even Jethro had been convinced – for at least as long as it took him to blink.

"Thank you." She whispered the words, taking one last look at that face before he closed the drawer.

"Director," Ducky looked as though he was going to say something more – probably something wise and insightful, though there was always the possibility that the message would be lost in the obscurity of the story it was wrapped up in. Either way, she had absolutely no wish to hear it.

* * *

They'd found some answers – and a whole lot more questions. They'd identified their victim, correctly this time; Chloe Sanders had been 35, a grade school teacher from Richmond, who had been reported missing three days earlier when she hadn't turned up to collect her kids from the woman who looked after them during the day. 

Gibbs had taken McGee with him to talk to her husband and to interview the staff at the store where she'd last been seen. Which had left Tony and Ziva with the unenviable task of going back through old cases to see if there was anyone who'd been recently released from prison who might wish the Director harm.

Of the Director herself – there had been no sign. Though if the increased security at all entrances and exits was anything to go by, she was definitely in the building.

"Did they have to solve so many cases?" Tony asked, leaning back in his chair and watching as a stack of folders on his desk wobbled precariously – but didn't actually fall. He had been through computer records, pulled the files of the ones that looked promising and come to the alarming realisation that the Gibbs /Sheppard partnership had been extremely successful.

"You aren't concentrating," Ziva responded, from behind an equally large stack of files.

"I'm thinking." He leaned back further in the chair, "is someone she put away really doing this?"

"I don't know Tony, isn't that what we're trying to find out."

"OK, but just think about it, how crazy would you have to be to bear a grudge like that – and at the same time how organised and careful would you have to be to not leave much in the way of evidence at three different crime scenes? We don't know how he abducted the women, we don't know where he killed them and we don't know how he dumped their bodies without being seen."

"So, what's your point DiNozzo?" They both jumped at the sound of Gibbs' voice coming from behind them. He didn't wait for their answer, but then he never did, just crossed to his desk and started looking through the papers. Tony answered him anyway,

"Is it possible to be both crazy and organised?"

"You tell me."

"Tony is not organised," Ziva pointed out, "but it is a question worth considering."

"So, we'll consider it. Have the two of you found any crazy but organised ex cons with a grudge against the Director?" Tony and Ziva exchanged glances, and again it was DiNozzo who answered.

"So far – there are three possible candidates, all released in the last six months. One of them is still on the west coast, we're using someone local to check him out, the other two are closer."

"Anything from your contacts?" Gibbs looked at Ziva, but she shook her head,

"Nothing on the anti-terror angle, so far, but they have flagged a former Serbian Captain." She handed him a file, "you and Director Sheppard caught him eight years ago while you were in Europe, it was a criminal case – not a war crime. He was convicted and served six years. He,"

"Liked to torture women, I remember. He was released?"

"A year ago, some sort of amnesty. Interpol flagged him, they think he's here somewhere – possibly running with the Russian mob." Gibbs shook his head for a moment, remembering the case and the details of what he had done to the women he'd hurt. Remembering the threats made in court against all those who had given evidence against him.

"Talk to the gangs unit, DiNozzo you know them, use whatever connections you have. Find him!" She nodded and he waved a hand at both of them, "go!"

He watched them leave and turned his attention back to the images of the dead women. Tony's comments had given him a question of his own. "This guy is not walking the streets hoping to find women who look like the Director of NCIS. Not in Richmond, DC and Nashua – so how is he finding them?" McGee rounded his desk and came to stand beside his boss.

"I've been thinking about that, boss, facial recognition software – it's got to be, we've used it ourselves on cases. He searches for some specific characteristics; he could get them from a photo – eye colour or shape, cheekbones, jaw line. All he'd need is the software and access to a database so he could search for anyone who matches the characteristics – and when he finds them, he uses the information to track them down and abduct them." Gibbs nodded,

"That's good McGee."

"The bad news is that he could have legitimate access to a database, or he could hack into it. We don't know which – and the software is pretty widely available."

"Check to see if any of our suspects have jobs that give them access to the kind of databases we're talking about, or the skills to hack into one. Check known associates too, maybe a friend is helping him."

"On it boss."

* * *

Abby hugged him – and not just because he had brought a Caff Pow with him. He suspected it was because she was worried about him, because she believed he and the Director were 'close'. But he didn't say anything and neither did she. She was Abby and she frequently managed to make him feel better without saying anything; and this wasn't the moment to debate the word 'close' as it related to him and Jen. 

"Is the Director OK? He wasn't sure about how to answer that and he was too wary to make the attempt.

"You can ask her yourself, I'm pretty sure she'll be down for a progress report sooner or later. Do you have anything for me Abs?"

"Yes – and no." He sighed, it was turning out to be that kind of a case.

"Let's start with the 'yes'"

"The wig is custom-made, I should be able to track down whoever made it – I'm on it now."

"That's good. What's the no?"

"Pretty much everything else. I'm sorry Gibbs, the painkillers are too common to trace to a particular pharmacy, I'm trying to identify the hair dye he used on victim one, but I think it's going to turn out to be a very common brand. He certainly isn't a hairdresser, he made a lousey job of cutting the hair of the first two victims – which I guess explains why he used a wig for victim 3. He moved the bodies using black sacks – but you can buy them everywhere. This guy is smart Gibbs and very careful."

"Let me know when you get something on the wig maker and give McGee a hand, he thinks our guy is using facial recognition software to find his victims."

"You got it!"

"Agent Gibbs," Cynthia approached him just outside Abby's lab, "the Director wanted me to give you this." He opened the envelope she handed him and glanced over the surprisingly short list of names on the paper inside.

"Where is she?"

"She's In MTAC, but she…" he didn't wait to hear the rest of whatever she had been about to tell him.

* * *

She was sitting on her own, in the front row of the tiered seating. There were a couple of technicians monitoring the data feeds and other communication systems and she was leafing through some folders, the head set round her neck a sign that her schedule had been re-worked so she could hold some of her 'meetings' in the relative safety of MTAC. 

"I hear you have some suspects," she said as he sat down beside her.

He knew she'd seen the autopsy report and clearly she'd been kept informed about what his team was up to. The conversation about her not interfering in this case seemed overdue, but the piece of paper he held was probably more of an issue right now.

"We're checking out a couple of faces from your past. I don't know if they're suspects yet." He told her who they were and only the name of the Serbian surprised her,

"He isn't still locked up in a prison somewhere?"

"Apparently not – Interpol have him with the Russian mob over here."

"Well, I feel much safer knowing that."

"We're checking it out." He turned his head to look at her, seeing the edge of shadows under her eyes. They might have been there before this started, he was almost sure they had been – but he couldn't be certain. "I got your list, there seem to be a few names missing from it."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Jen – my name isn't on the list." When he'd asked her to provide him a list of her former lovers, he hadn't really expected her to include him. It would have been far too risky to commit to paper what almost everyone speculated about, but very few people knew the truth of. But that didn't mean she could omit some other names out of the same sense of caution.

"I thought if you wanted to kill me you wouldn't resort to such indirect measures." She had a point, but experience had taught him to recognise her evasions a mile off and right now she was definitely not being straight with him.

"I know you," her eyes met his, eyebrow raised in a question that he refused to respond to; though if he had answered, it would be to remind her that in all the years they'd known each other men had been drawn to her, himself included, like moths to a flame. "Who are you trying to protect?"

"Is it inconceivable that I might just want to protect my privacy?" He looked straight back at her, not speaking and waited for her to remember that once he had taught her there was no privacy when it came to murder, which meant her privacy had been shot to hell the moment she had been connected to the dead women. As far as he was concerned the Director of NCIS should know better than to hope she'd been able to keep too many of her secrets.

For a long moment she didn't budge, he had no doubt that if she decided to dig her heels in this conversation could easily become messy. But, something shifted in her expression, the emotion flickering across her face far too rapidly for him to hope to identify.

"Fine," her voice was frosty, but she held out her hand and he passed over the paper. While he waited she wrote on it once more and handed it back to him. He was a little surprised to see she'd only added three names.

"Jen,"

"Perhaps you don't know me as well as you think you do." It was possible; it was also possible that he knew her exactly as well as he thought he did.

"You slept with my Doctor!" He had suddenly realised why one of the names she'd added to the list was familiar. "While I was in a coma, or did you wait until I'd woken up?" He remembered the neurologist, who'd treated him on both of the occasions he'd been in a coma. Up until that moment he'd actually been feeling quietly grateful to him.

"Be quiet!" His voice had been a little too loud, and they were getting some curious looks from the technicians still in the room. "I met him at the hospital while you were unconscious – he asked me out after you'd discharged yourself to go off to Mexico, and who I see is none of your business."

"I'm glad my life threatening injury gave you an opportunity to improve your social life. Why did it end? You trade him in for a politician?"

"He's in the Gulf, we decided a long-distance relationship wouldn't work for us."

"So, the Congressman was before?"

"Are you enjoying this Jethro?" He wasn't going to answer that; he also wasn't going to think about the fact that part of him had been expecting to see the name of one of his own agents on that list; thought that was what she had been hiding. And he didn't mean McGee – or Ziva. He stifled his relief and looking at the list instead asked,

"Who is Adam Peres?" At the question, she went still, just for a fraction of a second, and then leant towards him and hissed,

"You're the investigator, you figure it out!"

"Jen…" He wasn't going to back off in the face of her anger, but before he could continue they both became aware of the figure standing in the aisle, looking as though she wished she was anywhere but here.

"What it is Cynthia?"

"Director, you wanted to remind me about your call to Sec Nav."

"Thank you, I'll be right there." She turned back towards him, he could see she was calmer now – but he had no doubt that the fury was still there. It was rare that he'd get her to react so ferociously, he must have really struck a nerve. "However much you're enjoying digging through my private life, this isn't right Jethro, and you know it. It isn't an ex lover, it isn't any of the people you're checking out and, as much as I hate to admit it, it isn't the Serbian either. If it were, he wouldn't be killing them while they were unconscious, he'd be raping and hurting them first – and then he'd send them back to me in very small bits to make certain he had my attention."

He sighed, because his gut told him she was right, that they were missing something vital. This wasn't about revenge – it was more personal than that, it was about her, maybe even about some of those secrets she had tucked away.

She'd started to get up, but he caught hold of her wrist. "Jenny – is there anything you aren't telling me?"

"There are lots of things I'm not telling you Agent Gibbs." She shook him off and got to her feet, heading up the stairs. But before she'd gone too far she paused, turned back and lean towards him; close enough to whisper in his ear. "And if you wanted to know if I'd slept with DiNozzo, you only had to ask." And then she was gone, leaving only a faint hint of her perfume behind – exotic, subtle and expensive.

"Damn," he breathed, because she'd known what he'd been thinking, but mostly because he hated letting her have the last word.

TBC


	3. Day 2: evening

**A/N** - so thanks for the reviews. There seems to be more Jen angst here than I had really anticipated and I wanted the case to start to get to Gibbs too I am sure that this would never happen - but that is the beauty of fan fic

**Seeing Red – part 3**

By early afternoon things had started moving. Tony's connections had come through with some information about the Serbian, Metro PD found a witness who'd seen a car close to the place where Chloe Standing's body had been left and Abby and McGee had found out one of their other suspects had studied computing while in prison. Suddenly they were everywhere at once and while the team was enthusiastic about progress Gibbs couldn't shake the feeling that they were looking at this from the wrong angle. Jen's observation about the Serbian rang in his ears and he couldn't help but remember that there had been a time when he had trusted her judgement almost as much as he'd trusted his own.

Actually, when he didn't think about it too much, he still trusted her judgement and it was because of that he decided a little research of his own might be called for. The information he found wasn't exactly what he was expecting, but he did have access to someone who could confirm or deny what he'd found out. He looked across the bullpen, Ziva was leaning over Tony's desk, hopefully discussing the case.

"Ziva – who is Adam Peres?" Her expression went blank, when just a moment before she'd been animatedly debating a point with DiNozzo.

"Adam Peres is dead."

"You sure?"

"I should be – I killed him." Her eyes were dark and empty, soulless even and he remembered how Jen had reacted when he'd mentioned that name. There was history here; maybe even some of the emotion that could produce a crime of this nature.

"It says here he was a Mossad officer?" he gestured to his computer screen and she crossed to his side, dropping to the seat beside him.

"Does it also say he was my friend?" He could see Tony and McGee exchanging worried looks now that they could no longer hear their conversation. "He was a good man; brave," she frowned for a moment and then found the term she'd been searching for, "he had a heart of a lion. He was a friend of my fathers, I grew up around him."

"So, what happened?"

"He was killed acting on some intelligence I brought in, turned out the intelligence was wrong." Gibbs winced, knowing how painful that must have been, "so believe me when I tell you there is no doubt that he is dead." She frowned and he could almost see the effort it took for her to leave the memories behind. "What does Adam Peres have to do with the Director? They didn't get on – they were as different as chalk and…?" He didn't bother to tell her that the rest of the idiom she was searching for was cheese. They didn't have time for the explanation that would entail. Instead he said,

"My information is different." Ziva's eyes went wide she shook her head,

"There's no way – she would have told me."

"Apparently not."

* * *

Control, that was what was important and with every moment that passed she could feel more of it slipping through her fingers. She exhaled, eyes narrowing and moved her hip marginally before barely flexing her finger on the trigger of the gun. Three rounds pumped into the target – hitting it squarely in the chest. That was better. 

As she reloaded her weapon and took up her stance again a voice in her head, one that sounded irritatingly like Gibbs, told her that the key to this was there waiting to be uncovered, that this was just another mystery to be solved. She squeezed the trigger again – letting off more rounds and then rotated her shoulder carefully.

Gibbs had taught her everything she knew about investigations, along with some other things it would be prudent not to think about right now. She knew he had no choice but to go through her life as though it was the crime scene, as though it belonged to someone else. That didn't mean she had to like it.

She holstered the weapon – feeling slightly better because she could still exercise some authority over this investigation. To prove the point she had already made some calls and by now other agencies would be reviewing their records, looking into the details of some of the operations she had worked on that did not quite fall within NCIS' jurisdiction. Gibbs wouldn't approve, but she knew she could stand toe to toe with Jethro and not blink.

She glanced up and realised that her shooting practice had attracted an audience, of one. Ziva was watching her from the small observation deck and she realised this meant they were about to have a conversation she had been avoiding for four years and given the choice would have preferred to continue to avoid.

"Why didn't you tell me about you and Adam!" Ziva wasn't angry, yet, but her face had taken on that bleak look she wore when reminded of her losses.

"Come with me!" Jen ordered, determined not to have this conversation where they could be overheard. Just at the moment she felt as though her every move was being watched, her life a subject of discussion and debate. She was relieved when Ziva followed her into the elevator and, just after it had started moving she flicked the switch, suspending its movement.

"Now – do you have something to say to me Officer David?"

"You didn't tell me, I had to find out from Gibbs!" She sighed and thought about what she was going to do with Jethro, which didn't really solve her problem with Ziva. "Why didn't you say something?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. We had a job to do." It wasn't the truth, or not all of it. But long ago she had learnt that at times the truth was an overrated virtue. She tilted her head and looked at the woman before her, knowing she would require a more personal explanation. "You were mourning him and I didn't want to intrude on that. Not when whatever was going on between he and I had scarcely had a chance to begin."

"How long?"

"Just a few weeks – we were together the last weekend before you and I left."

"I wish you had told me, it would have helped me to know that he was happy, that he had someone." Privately Jen didn't think that it would have helped at all, she didn't share her feelings easily and she wasn't someone who allowed her private life to become public.The very small number of people who knew what had really happened with Gibbs was evidence of that.

"Ziva – don't run away with the idea that I was the love of his life. He was a good man, but he lived a dangerous life, we both did and I'm fairly sure a big house and a couple of kids wasn't in our future."

"He really was great though, wasn't he?" Just for a moment Jen let herself remember. It had been another time, another part of her life she felt, disconnected from now. She knew things about Adam Peres that Ziva never would, but she smiled and agreed with her description if him and it wasn't entirely a lie. She flicked the switch again, not sure if Gibbs would be happy if he discovered that she had 'borrowed' his office for their conversation.

Ziva crossed her arms and leant back against the wall of the lift, "so," she said, "Gibbs is checking our your former lovers, in case any of them could be involved in this. The question is, did you tell him the truth?"

"You know better than to expect me to answer that." She was marginally surprised when Ziva followed her out of the elevator – they hadn't been socialising recently and no matter how closely they'd worked together over the years, they had never exactly been friends. But she felt, indebted to Ziva and while Gibbs tutelage might not be everyone's idea of re-paying someone who'd once saved your life, in this case it had probably been the right thing to do.

"It's because I know you that I am asking." Despite the sudden burst of camaraderie she still had no intention of answering. And anyway, when she got to her office she saw Cynthia's face, the two men in dark suits waiting just inside the doorway and stiffened, recognising trouble when she saw it.

"Find Gibbs," she said.

* * *

Gibbs couldn't remember the last time he had been this angry. This wasn't like being angry at a witness who he knew was with-holding vital information. This was different; the anger he reserved for the arrogance and stupidity of other agencies – unwilling to admit the mistakes their hubris had caused. This was anger that burned through him, he could taste it, like bile, in his throat. 

The Secret Service officer was trying to wriggle out of this, he was just the messenger after all, but letting him off the hook wasn't really on the cards – the mistake had been, spectacular and there was a distinct lack of willingness to take responsibility in his demeanour.

He met Tobias' eyes across the table and knew that Fornell was relieved that it wasn't the FBI who'd screwed this up. Playing politics for no good reason, risking the life of the woman they were supposed to be protecting, allowing 3 women to be murdered in her stead.

Before him were at least 20 or 30 letters; copies, because Jen had sent the originals straight down to Abby – the first sensible thing anyone had done in this whole damn mess. He'd only glanced at some of them, but their message was crystal clear; he wasn't looking for an ex-lover, or someone she'd put away. Instead he was looking for a stalker, a complete stranger who'd become obsessed with her. And who, if the letters were any indication, believed that they were meant to be together. He'd filled pages with his 'love', with his need for her and his desires and then, finally, when she didn't respond he started to get angry and the pages became filled with demands and threats. The last letter had been sent a month before the first death – it's message chilling and simple, "give yourself to me – or face the consequences."

Six months worth of obsession finally descending into threats and murder and only now were any of them hearing about it. The Secret Service had determined that there was no need for the Director of NCIS to know that she had a stalker, that there was no need to do anything – except to continue to intercept the letters.

"Three women are dead," he said through gritted teeth, "and all we are getting is this crap."

"As I've explained Agent Gibbs, it's Secret Service Policy only to reveal specific threats to the person concerned if there is an imminent danger to them, from an identified source. The Director has hardly been left unprotected – as a result of the letters we increased her detail and improved our surveillance."

"And did nothing to investigate."

"In our experience…"

"Spend a lot of time actually investigating crimes do you?" It was going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack and they had wasted 24 hours because the connection hadn't been made until Jen had started calling in favours herself.

"We had no reason to anticipate this turn of events, we intercepted the letters and kept your Director safe – we did our jobs." Gibbs opened his mouth to argue some more, but this time Jen got their first,

"That's enough Agent Gibbs." She didn't shout, her voice was almost quiet – but it stopped him and pulled his gaze back to her. Her expression was unreadable, while he'd got angry she had stayed frighteningly calm – and she was the one person in the room who had every reason to be raging. Only someone who knew her well would have had any idea what this was costing her and he just about remembered being that person.

Their eyes met and he sent her a small nod – an acknowledgement that he'd let it go, for now. They did after all have more things to worry about.

She dismissed the meeting with some meaningless nonsense about the agencies working together to resolve this – as though she was discussing a jurisdictional question and not a serious threat to her own life. Gibbs followed Fornell towards the door, but looked back over his shoulder in time to see Jen turning towards the windows. For the first time since all of this had begun, she actually looked vulnerable and fragile.

He hesitated, torn between wanting to make sure she was OK and knowing that the new direction of the case meant he didn't have a second to waste. But she took the decision out of his hands when she turned slightly and caught sight of him watching. Her expression changed again, to become carefully blank once more and instead of retreating to the windows she sat down at her desk and reached for a file. He decided she would find it easier to maintain the fiction that this wasn't bothering her, if he left her alone.

"How's she holding up?" Fornell asked as they walked out together.

"You saw her, what do you think?"

"Honestly? I think she's doing surprisingly well – you I'm not so sure about."

"I'm fine Tobias." His friend snorted derisively and shot him a look that spoke volumes.

"Of course you are."

* * *

It was late and she was tired. Her head was buzzing with a tension headache, her limbs heavy and stiff. What she needed was to go home to a glass of wine, a hot bath and finally sink into her own bed for some much needed sleep – but it wasn't going to happen. 

She felt dirty, soiled by the content of the letters, by the outpouring of destructive and corrosive emotion that their author would probably describe as love. Her history with relationships might not be one big happy ever after, but she knew this had nothing to do with love and everything to do with power, anger and madness. Her skin was crawling and she thought that probably a shower would help; though there might not be enough hot water to truly make her feel clean again.

She took off her reading glasses and set them aside, rubbing at her temples and wincing at the sharp pain. She was digging through her desk drawers looking for painkillers when her office door was pushed open and Gibbs walked in – as always he looked as though it hadn't even occurred to him that he ought to knock.

As he'd done once or twice before, he crossed to her couch and started to unpack the bag he was carrying. "You have to eat," he pointed out as though expecting her to protest, when in fact it was the furthest thing from her mind. The growling of her stomach was a salient reminder that it had been a long time since she had eaten last. As he poured them both a glass of wine she abandoned her desk, slipped off her shoes and curled into the armchair.

"Thank you," he nodded and concentrated on heaping her plate with grilled chicken and salad. She took a mouthful and smiled, "you remembered the dressing I like."

"I like this dressing as well." She was privately amused by his refusal to concede that he had carried a memory from their time together for all these years. She took a sip of wine and looked at him over the top of her wine glass.

"I appreciate the food Jethro – but what do you want?" The look he gave her said he'd been hoping to get further through the meal before getting into this – but verbal fencing, especially with him, took more energy than she had right now.

"Abby and McGee have been going through the letters – there are references in them, places he saw you. They think if they can tie up the references with actual events they'll be able to look for names that keep appearing on guest lists or employee lists, find him that way. We have a description from the wig maker, though it's not a great one, and a partial plate from the car seen near where the third body was found."

"And they want to compare my schedule with the letters?" She started to get up, but he waved her down,

"Finish your meal first." But she couldn't be still, couldn't sit and enjoy a meal while her life was slowly unravelling around her. Couldn't stop thinking about that final threat, the one no one had referred to but everyone understood – that he would carry on killing women and making them look like her, until she gave herself to him, surrendered to someone who was undoubtedly a monster. She wasn't about to do that, just as she wasn't about to let him kill anyone else – so they were going to have to catch him.

Gibbs didn't comment when she went to her desk and returned with her schedule, in electronic and paper form. They pushed the plates away so he could spread out the papers and copies of the letters. She didn't want to touch them; the contents were too much under her skin already, the words she'd read the first time had bruised her, abrasions marking her skin.

He must have noticed her reluctance, though he didn't remark upon it. Instead he took the task out of her hands – literally. Leafing though the letters to give her the date the first one had arrived, leaving her the task of cross-referencing the dates with her schedule. And then she found it.

"Two days before the first letter arrived I gave a lecture at the Naval War College." She remembered the sea of faces looking back at her as she stood at the lectern, "there must have been 200 people there." He sighed,

"Of course there were – first female Director of an armed federal agency – I'm surprised ZNN didn't run it live." A lengthier study of her schedule revealed other correlations – one a visit to the opera, which had Gibbs rolling his eyes, either at her choice of entertainment, or at the number of people who'd been there on the same evening. There were other, subtler indications as well – enough to give them something to go on.

She leant her head back against the chair and closed her eyes, resting just for a moment. She could hear Jethro moving around beside her, shuffling papers, clearing away the remnants of their meal. "You OK?" he asked, more quietly than she'd expected.

"Tired, today has been – well, a lot has happened."

"I asked Ziva about Adam Peres," she wasn't expecting the confession and she opened her eyes, turning her head towards him, though of course he wasn't looking at her, his gaze was fixed on the almost empty wine glass he held and she knew that was as close to an apology as she was going to get. She might have asked him why he'd done such a thing, but asking the question would mean having to deal with the consequences of his answer – and she didn't want that.

"I know – she came to me, we talked about it." This time he did look at her, his eyes searching her face, looking for something.

"Did you tell her the truth?"

"Some of it," it was disturbing that he knew her well enough to ask her that question, even if he couldn't be sure what the truth was. "It's need to know,"

"It always is," she could just hear the trace of bitterness in his voice and her nerves were a little too frayed to let him get away with it.

"And you don't keep secrets? Your life is an open book?" She remembered that six months ago she'd stood on a stage at the Naval War College and begun her lecture by quoting Sun-Tzu and the axiom that 'all warfare is based on deception.' She'd thought it appropriate because she was familiar with warfare, or at least the modern version of warfare, and because she knew a lot about deception. But she was not the only one.

"You should go home Jen, get some sleep." She wasn't surprised he'd let the subject drop, they did this; too familiar with each other to do anything else, too distant to get any closer.

"No." Her voice didn't sound entirely calm, but it did sound completely certain – almost anyone else would never argue with that tone.

"Jenny,"

"I'm not going home – not tonight." His eyes widened and she looked away. It was fine to be scared; she'd be a little crazy if this situation wasn't scaring her. But that didn't mean she was ready to let Gibbs see that.

"You could come home with me." The offer was made quietly, hesitantly; she tilted her head to look at him and couldn't quite stop herself from smiling. He looked back and she read the question in the slight movement of his head, the raising of his eyebrow, the curve of his lips that might have been a hint of a smile.

Once they'd been able to have whole conversations using very few words – the jumble of intimacy and familiarity had given them a connection that had made them a lethal combination professionally. Now, it was an echo of a time long past and though sometimes she found it comforting, she also knew she couldn't afford to depend upon it. His eyes were sincere and it would have been so easy to say yes, but it was because of his eyes and the way they made her feel, that told her that doing so would be very unwise.

"I'll be fine here."

"If you're sure."

"I am." He nodded, standing up, getting ready to take his leave.

"I'll let the night shift know you're here."

"Thanks." God, she hoped this situation wasn't going to continue – she was already fed up with being grateful to people.

"Goodnight Jen." Finally alone she let out a shaky breath, there was a blanket and a pillow in a cupboard that would be enough for her to get some sleep – it wasn't the first time she'd slept on a couch in her office and it likely wouldn't be the last.

But sitting here on her own she reflected on just how tempted she'd been to accept Jethro's offer. Would it really have been so terrible to let him take her home with him and then sit drinking bourbon, watching him work on his boat until she fell asleep? Would it really have hurt to let him keep her safe, if only for a few hours?

But she knew the answer to that; the ghosts that swirled around her tonight were proof that she could make mistakes and that those mistakes had consequences. So here she was, sitting in the fading light, scared and alone. She'd forfeited the right to have Jethro Gibbs take care of her a long time ago – and there was no going back from that.

TBC


	4. Day 3: daytime

A/N- OK, so, this was the chapter that wouldn't end, I think it's too long - but I needed all of this to happen so I could move the story forwards. I promise the next part won't be so, procedural. Thanks for the reviews for the previous chapters, it's great that people are staying with this fic.

**Seeing Red – part 4**

Gibbs looked across the table in the interview room, the Lt. stared back at him, the bravado he'd been hiding behind since Ziva and DiNozzo brought him in fading fast. He'd been at the lecture; he could have followed the Director to the opera and everywhere else. His description just about fit that of the person who had purchased a custom made red wig, but with every moment that passed the excitement at having a credible suspect was fading. The good Lt. might have run when approached by NCIS – but Gibbs was increasingly certain that he wasn't their guy.

He took a sip from his rapidly cooling coffee and let his victim stew for a little longer. Abby and McGee were still looking for anyone whose movements matched the events described in the letters, they were going to find something. It was just a question of when.

Last night he'd roamed restlessly around his house for a couple of hours – not even working on his boat had calmed him. Finally he'd given up and returned to the base, where he could see and know everything that was going on. Jen had probably got more sleep on the couch in her office.

All day he'd been pushing the team pretty hard, but the threat in the final letter had been clear. His gut told him they were running out of time, that their guy was spiralling out of control, consumed by his determination to make Jen surrender. He might stop being careful – but there was no knowing what damage he would do before they could stop him.

If the rest of NCIS had expected their Director to take cover when the news broke that she had a dangerous stalker, then they didn't know her very well. Instead of hiding away in her office or in MTAC she'd been highly visible and in kick ass mood. Gibbs hadn't seen her, but he knew she'd cut a swathe through some of his colleagues. She'd clearly had enough rest and space to rebuild some of the walls that had seemed in danger of crumbling yesterday. She was tough, she'd be fine – and if she wasn't she'd make sure everyone believed otherwise. He was one of the few people who might see through that act, though it was anyone's guess whether he would decide to call her on it.

He looked across the table again and decided if he left it just a little longer, their suspect would be ready to spill his guts. A few minutes later he emerged from the interview room to find DiNozzo and Ziva waiting, they'd no doubt witnessed the brief interrogation he'd just conducted.

"Do you believe him?" Tony asked.

"About the smuggling – yes?" Gibbs looked back through the one way glass, something niggling him. "He knows something, or thinks he does. He's scared."

"You think someone else got him to collect the wig?" Ziva said, Gibbs considered that. He was increasingly sure that the lecture was important, the moment when this all began.

"Let him stew while you run some more checks. Find out how he got into that lecture, you couldn't exactly buy tickets at the box office. It was staff, current students, alumni and invited guests only. See who he knows who was there."

"On it boss." He watched them go and then turned his attention to the man who had watched the interaction without commenting – which was unusual.

"You got something for me Ducky?"

"No, I came to see how you were." He scowled, already tired of being asked that.

"Well, I'm in the middle of a complicated case, searching for a killer who I'm fairly sure is mad. There's little in the way of evidence to help me track him down, the Secret Service decision not to investigate at the outset means the trail is pretty cold and if I screw up NCIS is going to need a new Director. Other than that I'm fine Ducks, how are you?"

"You've been known to take cases like this personally, Jethro."

"Not this time."

* * *

Abby was delivering a lecture on the typology of stalking. It wasn't clear what had prompted her outpouring, but Jen suspected McGee had said or done something. Leaning against the doorway, close enough to overhear, but not to be seen; it was hard not to be impressed by the sheer amount of information the scientist had managed to absorb on the subject. Although, having once been stalked herself, perhaps Abby was making use of an earlier review of available literature. 

She'd had Cynthia pull some information together earlier today, so the content was familiar. Hearing it presented like this almost made it, clinical. She'd like to convince herself that this was about someone else's rapidly unravelling life. But no matter how hard she tried to retain some sense of distance, she knew the life in question was hers. "It can take over 10 years for an obsession like this to burn out," Abby concluded, "10 years McGee, can you imagine that?"

"I suppose, no, not really." His back was to her but Jen could imagine McGee's frown as he sought a rational explanation for something that was far from rational. "But, he thinks its love, in some twisted part of his mind at least. If you love someone you don't just stop."

"It's not love Agent McGee, not even in some deeply twisted form." She couldn't let that pass, even though her voice sounded just a little too strained. "It's not even close." He jumped a mile at the sound of her voice and she tried to take just a little pleasure in the knowledge that she was still intimidating. At least to McGee.

"Director, I didn't know you were there. I'm sorry, I didn't mean…" She waved his apology away, more interested in results. Abby looked as though she was trying to decide if a hug was in order and Jen really hoped she concluded that now was not a good time.

"Do you have anything new?" She asked, hoping to distract Abby for long enough for the moment to pass.

"I think that's supposed to be my question." Of course Jethro chose that precise moment to appear behind her, though she'd been trying to stay out of his way for most of the day. He handed Abby the inevitable Caff Pow; Ziva and Tony trailing in his wake. They looked slightly wary – perhaps wondering if having caught her interfering in the case, a disagreement was inevitable and were trying to work out how not to be caught in the cross fire.

"The gangs all here," Tony observed lightly, as though humour was going to have any impact on the tension in the room.

"Your suspect?" She asked, ignoring the looks they all seemed to be shooting her. Checking she wasn't about to fall apart, she thought ungenerously.

"Freaked out because he thought we were pulling him in over a smuggling ring." Tony shrugged, "he might know something – but he isn't giving it up."

"Which brings us back to your schedule and the letters," Abby said, all business now. "McGee and I have been taking a closer look. We have managed to rule out over 150 of the people who attended the lecture – most of them are posted overseas or on the other side of the country, and yes Gibbs, we have checked they aren't on leave," she added forestalling his inevitable question.

"I've been looking at the letters as well," her eyes met Jethro's for a moment, but she looked away first, his scrutiny too penetrating. "The trip to the opera was organised by Sec Nav – entertainment for some overseas VIPs. But the point is, _he _must have been there." No one questioned who the 'he' she referred to was. But no one was looking at her as though she had said anything revelatory either. She glanced at Abby, who she thought might see it. "How did he know I was going to the opera? I'm assuming we don't think he hacked into our systems to read my schedule?"

"He didn't hack in," McGee sounded certain, "we checked – there hasn't been a security breach."

"So he followed you," Tony said, "saw you go inside, realised it was the opera." Jen opened her voice to disagree, but Abby got there first; her eyes wide as she processed the implications.

"No, guys, he was there, he had tickets. Director, you're right, he was close to you! He knew what you were wearing – it's in the letter. He talks about wanting to touch your back." Jen shivered and silently vowed to give the backless dress, which she had actually been very fond of, to charity. He'd been close enough to touch her – but she wasn't thinking about that today, she was thinking about catching the bastard.

"He couldn't have seen you earlier?" Gibbs asked, and she dragged her memory back to that night.

"It was April – I was wearing a coat when I left home. He might have seen the dress, but not that it was backless."

"He does seem to have access to your schedule." Gibbs remarked, "and if our systems are intact – the question becomes where could he have got it from? He could be on your detail, or an agent here?" He threw the idea out as though it were a challenge, checking that she was still thinking. She lifted her head and stared back, saying coldly,

"I hope I'm not wrong in assuming that was one of the first things you checked."

"About 10 seconds after we realised you were at risk," he took a sip of his coffee and then, surprisingly, handed the cup to her. She took a long swallow, wrinkling her nose at the strength of the brew, but grateful for the kick it provided. "So, we know he's close – but he's not here. Why not?" It was McGee who answered, seeing the logical progression in the question.

"Maybe he was turned down in the application process?" He hit some keys on the computer; "I'm checking the names at the lecture against a list of applicants of open slots here."

"And who here thinks the Director isn't going to be a good recruitment tool," Tony said, almost under his breath. She smiled at him, although Jethro didn't seem too amused at the remark. She took another sip of the coffee and then offered it back to Gibbs – who shook his head.

"Things must be bad if you're letting me keep the coffee," she commented.

"Got something," McGee was scrolling through a list of names, with pictures. Abby leaned close, reading over his shoulder.

"Looks like you are good for recruitment Director, applications were up following your lecture."

"Which doesn't really help." Ziva pointed out, although McGee didn't seem to hear.

"Hang on – OK, only a couple of people who applied after the lecture were turned down and one application was withdrawn."

"Withdrawn?" Gibbs looked interested in that, "he get a better offer?"

"You could say that," McGee read the data before him, "Captain Bradley Fraiser – he's currently attached to Sec Nav's office."

"Well, I guess we know how he managed to get to the opera," Tony drawled.

"Let's pick him up." Gibbs was already moving when Jen came to her senses and shook off her surprise.

"Agent Gibbs!" She followed him out of Abby's lab and he paused before turning back to her. Around them, the rest of his team skittered to a halt.

"I'll catch up with you," he said sending them on their way. "Don't tell me to tread carefully Jen, we aren't playing politics on this."

"You've got nothing to link him to the murders." She reminded him.

"Fine, we'll tell him we're checking out everyone who was at the lecture and who is still on the east coast. I'm sure Sec Nav won't mind."

"And you'll be your normal subtle, respectful self?"

"I don't have time to be subtle – and don't even think about calling ahead to give your boss the heads up. We don't know what systems this guy might have set up to monitor calls from you."

"Do you really think it's him?"

"Who the hell knows – I'm trying to find out."

"Be careful," she said quietly, but he was already out of ear shot. She leant back against the wall and closed her eyes, just for a moment. She knew what this meant, that his gut was telling him he was onto something – and heaven help anyone who got in his way. She sighed and then opened her eyes, almost jumping at coming face to face with a concerned looking Abby. "Hi Abby," she said weakly, knowing that her moment of weakness and her conversation with Gibbs had just been witnessed.

"Are you OK?"

"I've had better weeks."

"When it happened to me," she looked down at her feet and Jen was surprised at how difficult the younger woman was finding this. "It took me a while to realise that it wasn't my fault. Director - this isn't your fault, OK?"

"OK," she managed a small smile, which apparently gave Abby the courage to continue.

"Gibbs is – he's worried and getting angry is his way of showing it." She'd almost started to point out that actually Gibbs didn't treat everyone the way he treated Abby when she added, "he won't let you get hurt, he won't let anything bad happen to you." She knew that he would do anything to protect a member his team, but she wasn't sure where she stood with him these days and she wasn't comfortable about needing his help and protection.

"I know you believe that Abby, but the truth is, bad things have happened already."

* * *

"Talk to me McGee," they were standing outside a nondescript apartment building in late afternoon. Tony was lounging against his car wearing an expression of boredom that was likely to earn him a slap on the back of the head quite soon, Ziva was scanning the perimeter – probably calculating potential threats and McGee had just come concluded a phone call. 

"Boss – Fraiser left work at lunchtime today, he said he'd had bad news about his family." None of them believed that, it was far more likely he had realised they were coming for him. Gibbs glanced to his right. "DiNozzo?"

"Fifth floor boss – he's lived here for a year, apartment's a rental and the landlord says he's quiet, keeps himself to himself."

"They always say that. Car?"

"Jeep. It's not here." Gibbs looked around him; this was a perfect location for someone who wanted to go unnoticed. Most people who lived here were out at work during the day and wrapped up in their own lives when they were home. That told him something already, choosing to live somewhere like this was a statement of sorts.

They'd gathered other information before heading over here and though he'd been impatient, the effort was worth it. They knew that Fraiser was part of the team within Sec Nav's office handling Congressional liasion – and that he was good at it. His evaluations described an intelligent, driven man who had trouble connecting with others. He'd attended the Naval War College for a semester before this attachment, where he'd come across the Lt. who was still residing in their secure area and who wasn't talking. They had also learned that over the last two months Fraiser had been increasingly absent, claiming medical treatment for a busted knee. Something else none of them believed.

"There are no red flags on his record" McGee said, "there's nothing to indicate that he'd…"

"Kill 3 women because of an obsession with our Director. What were you expecting probie, lifetime membership of 'psychos are us?'" Gibbs knew what McGee was looking for, but he didn't think they could spare the time to try to work out what had turned Fraiser into a monster and he wasn't sure he cared.

"Let's just find him shall we – you can ask him what made him do it when we have him locked up."

Fraiser wasn't answering his front door, which wasn't entirely shocking. Gibbs thought it was unlikely that Sec Nav would let a threat to the Director of NCIS pass without requesting frequent updates. Which meant that up until recently their suspect had access to a lot of information about the state of their investigation.

"No one home." DiNozzo looked over at him, "we going in?"

"Do you hear something" Gibbs enquired of his team, "maybe a scream?"

"Definitely a scream," Ziva agreed, never one for waiting around.

The door gave way after a couple of good kicks and they moved swiftly from room to room, determining that the small apartment was indeed empty. Only when they were satisfied of this did they look at their surroundings.

"I think we've found our guy," DiNozzo said, and if the photographs of the Director of NCIS covering one wall were anything to go by, he had a point. "How the hell did he get this close to her, this often, without someone noticing?" It was a question Gibbs didn't want to think about right now, instead he issued instructions – making sure the team searched thoroughly, they couldn't afford to miss anything.

But as they worked he found his attention drawn back to the photographs. The more he looked at them the more he realised that it wasn't just a random assortment of images. The choices had been deliberate, catching Jen in every possible mood – including a shot of the two of them, when her mood was one he personally described as, 'I'm pissed at you Jethro, but I'm not going to let you have the last word.'

Perhaps these images had been enough for Fraiser, at least for a while. But they had also fed his hunger and obsession. He'd call it love, of course. Maybe even claim that being prepared to kill for her was proof of just how much he loved her. Gibbs knew that while he would catch this guy, sooner or later, there was nothing he could do to prevent Jen from being damaged by this. It was already too late for that.

He cast one more look at the photograph; there they were, a moment frozen on the wall of a madman. He couldn't even remember what they had been arguing about. But this time, when he looked at her, he noticed what he hadn't seen with his first glance. She was beautiful. He couldn't remember the last time he'd looked at her and simply seen a beautiful woman. She was the Director – sometimes his ally, more often his enemy. She'd been his partner and had lived through any number of dangers with him. The charred remnants of their relationship could still cause him pain – like a dull ache in his knee when the weather was cold and wet.

He seldom looked, really looked at her. And now he knew why.

"Boss?" How long had DiNozzo been standing at his shoulder, "you OK?" He didn't even bother answering that.

"Let's get on with the search," he said brusquely, as though it had been Tony he'd caught day-dreaming.

It took almost two hours before they found anything. Tucked away in a file of utility bills McGee found photographs of half a dozen other women, all of whom bore a hint of a resemblance to Jen. There was no identifying information with them, but it didn't take much to conclude that Fraiser had marked them down as future victims.

"You think he's taken someone else already?" Ziva asked, as they looked at the photographs spread out across the desk.

"He must know we're looking for him. He'll be angry, he doesn't think he's done anything wrong. The Director's the one resisting him, she…" He stopped, seeing the puzzled looks of the others, but not caring at this precise moment. He found his cell and dialled Jen's number. He needed her to be at NCIS – because he suddenly had a very bad feeling. Her cell phone was off and he didn't even bother leaving her a message, punching in the speed dial number that would get him through to her office. "Where is she!" He demanded for the second time in as many days.

"The Director left about 10 minutes ago, she said she needed to collect some clothes and papers from home and…" He cut off whatever she was about to say, too intent on what his gut was telling him.

"McGee, stay here – secure the apartment. Get help with shipping this stuff back to Abby. You two, with me." Ziva and DiNozzo followed him out, both running to keep up with him. "The Director's gone home. I'm sure she has her detail with her, but Fraiser's going to be mad if he thinks she sent us after him."

* * *

Gibbs moved carefully, pushing open the front door that he had already established was ajar. It was dark outside and there were no lights on inside the house. He reached for a light switch and wasn't surprised when nothing happened. He took another step forward and glass crunched under his foot - which explained why the lights weren't working. Since arriving to find a agent with his head blown off just outside the Director's car, this was the first indication he'd had that Jen was alive. He'd seen her shoot out lights on streets, in dilapidated buildings and once, memorably, in a very expensive hotel. And he was the person who'd taught her the tactic. 

They'd been a few minutes away from the house when they'd received word that the emergency alarm in her house had been activated. Back up was on the way, but one member of her two agent detail was dead, the other was missing. They couldn't wait. He'd sent Ziva round to the back of the house; DiNozzo was to his right. He shifted the gun in his hand – knowing that now they needed to find Jen.

"Identify yourself," her voice was low and quiet, but the instruction was clear. Something in her tone made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"It's Gibbs." There was a long silence and then she said,

"He blew Crosby's brains out right in front of me Jethro. I couldn't do anything."

"Is he still here?"

"I'm not sure, he was waiting for us in the driveway. Is it him, the guy from Sec Nav's office?"

"Looks that way."

"He did this to teach me a lesson, didn't he? So I know that he has control."

"He doesn't have control Jen." She turned on a flashlight and he saw that she was sitting on the stairs, her gun on her knees. He had no doubt that she had identified this as a good, defensible position and he guessed she'd used her superior knowledge of the house to knock out the lights, leaving her opponent blind, while she went for the emergency supplies. Smart, very smart. But this wasn't the moment to compliment her on her tactics.

There was a smudge of something on her cheek and as he stepped towards her he noticed a large stain in the centre of her shirt. It was blood.

TBC


	5. Day 3: night

A/N - thank you for the lovely reviews. I 'm glad people are enjoying reading this. I wish I could say things were going to get better for Jen - but it's fun to torture her. Sorry about the evil cliff hanger at the end of the last part. I'm afraid I can't promise never to do such a thing again.

**Seeing Red – part 5**

The ambulance door slammed shut and Jen watched its departure with a sense of relief – they'd got to McGuigan in time, it would be all right. She shivered and pulled the NCIS issue jacket she was wearing tighter around her. It was a late September evening – the fact that she was shivery had nothing to do with shock and everything to do with the distinct chill in the night air. That and the fact that she'd discarded her shirt as soon as she'd realised it was soaked with someone else's blood. On the list of things she wasn't ready to think about right now was the look on Gibbs' face when he had thought the blood was hers. In her opinion the list was becoming entirely too long.

A trip to collect some clean clothes and a file for a meeting the following day had gone disastrously wrong. She had been mentally berating herself for cowardice, because she'd opted to spend another night on her office couch. But that had been forgotten when the first shot had rung out, burnt away in the rapid, desperate retreat from the man who had waited in the darkness and taken another life before her very eyes.

Crosby had been killed as soon as he stepped out of the car; McGuigan had taken a shot to the shoulder as he'd tried to cover her. She'd been the one to return fire, dragging him with her into the house, aware that could easily be what their assailant had intended, but equally clear they had no other choice. She wished she could claim she had been smart, or even lucky – but the truth was he'd let them get away.

She wanted to believe Jethro when he said that Bradley Fraiser wasn't in control of this situation, but just at the moment the evidence tended to point the other way. And one of the things she'd learnt during the time he'd been training her was to study the evidence.

She found her former partner easily despite the crowd of agents in the driveway. It had taken a relatively short time for help to arrive and now there were representatives from all three agencies buzzing around. Despite that, there was little doubt that Gibbs and his team were firmly in control, they had made sure the scene was secure and were also leading the search for evidence. No one, not even Fornell, was making much of an attempt to challenge jurisdiction now. She guessed that all the other agencies had determined that if she got killed they would be able to hold up their hands and let NCIS take the blame.

She crossed the driveway to join him, politically astute enough to know that not everyone here was watching her back. Some people were waiting to see if she cracked. She was sure they were already preparing the sympathetic remarks, the regretful murmurings that, after all, a woman really couldn't cut it in a role like this.

"You get checked out?" he asked, looking towards the tail-lights of the ambulance, even though the most serious injury she'd sustained was a small cut on her cheek from flying glass.

"You find any casings?" She countered, waiting to see how he would respond.

"Three," he pointed to a spot on the driveway. She turned, taking in the sweep on the drive, seeing it in terms of angles and trajectories. "The car headlights would have missed him, there was no way you could have seen him. Once Crosby got out he was easily in the line of fire. It's not the hardest shot in the world."

"You think he was waiting for me?"

"It is your house, but he doesn't want to kill you." He was right, she realised, killing Crosby was another way of applying pressure to her. The death of anyone who had contact with her would have sufficed. Her throat tightened at the thought of how close she'd come to asking Cynthia to run this errand for her, of what might have happened if it hadn't been Neomi's day off.

She shook the troubling thoughts off, trying to maintain some focus, concentrating on the essentials. "Someone should talk to the press," she said – knowing there was no chance at all this would slide past them.

"Not you," he responded quickly, "use a spokesperson. If you do it, he's going to see you and think you're sending him a message."

"It's my job," she hissed back, already hating how this case had the potential to send her to the sidelines.

"Not today," she narrowed her eyes, preparing to overrule him, but he tilted his head to look at her and she could tell that he really meant it, that he wasn't just being difficult. She took a breath and reminded herself that with Gibbs you had to pick your battles.

"Fine."

"Gibbs," Ziva appeared beside them, "we found something. Another letter." She started to follow them indoors, half expecting him to object and this time perfectly prepared to debate the point and win. But all he said was,

"There are gloves in the pocket," making her realise that when she'd taken her shirt off he'd handed her his own jacket.

The letter was propped against the antique mirror that stood over the fireplace in the living room. She recognised the neat printing of her name and realised that this was the first time one of Fraiser's letters had directly reached it's intended recipient. It was hard to imagine how she'd feel now, if this had been dragging on for months, if she'd been living with the knowledge of her stalker from the moment he'd first contacted her.

What would she have done if she'd known about her stalker before he'd killed anyone? Would she have seen him as a risk, would any of them? Or would the letters have become a joke, an inconvenience. She glanced over at Jethro as he pulled on latex gloves and started to open the letter. If he'd known what was going on months ago would he have been worried? But there were no answers to such questions and she knew better than to try to find them.

A Polaroid slipped out from beneath the folded sheet of paper and Gibbs turned it over. Jen froze, the blood suddenly thundering in her ears and drowning out everything else. Twenty minutes earlier she'd been decisive and alert in a crisis, but right now she wasn't entirely sure her legs could be trusted to hold her up. She must have gasped because his eyes shot to her.

"Director?" She reached for the photograph but his fingers gripped her wrist, arresting her movement, and the jolt from their contact was enough to shake her out of her stupor.

"I know her," she looked down at the woman in the photograph and knew she should have thought of this as soon as she'd heard where Fraiser worked. "She works for Sec Nav, her name is Colette Andrews. I remember her, because our hair colour was similar."

She thought about what she knew about Andrews, wishing she could say she'd liked the woman. But, in truth, she'd found her breathless, little girl voice extremely grating and whenever they had been in the same meeting she'd wondered how anyone could use a keyboard, or do anything at all, with such ridiculously long fingernails. But that didn't mean she wished her dead. And she had little doubt that the woman in the photograph was dead.

Gibbs opened the letter, it's message brief and to the point – which made it worse somehow. '_Poor Colette, she really doesn't look that much like you, apart from her hair. In life she was rather nondescript, but now you'll never forget her. She died because of your stubbornness. This is so unnecessary, stop fighting me, just surrender."_ It wasn't signed, but then none of the letters had been signed. And the message was all too clear.

She pulled her wrist out of Gibbs' grasp, suddenly furious with all of them and herself most of all. "Find him!" She snapped, not caring that they weren't alone, not caring that this was evidence of a loss of control her political enemies would surely use against her, "find him and stop him Jethro. Or I swear I will!"

* * *

"Stay with her," Gibbs said to DiNozzo, who had arrived in time to move rapidly out of the Director's way as she stormed from the room. "I'm serious – don't let her out of your sight for a second." 

"She's not going to want a babysitter…"

"DiNozzo!" He didn't want to hear excuses, he wanted someone he trusted with Jen, someone she trusted.

"Yes boss," Tony held his hands up in surrender and shot Ziva a look that said 'good luck' before retreating.

"Do you think she means it?" Fornell asked quietly, Gibbs had almost forgotten he had followed them inside – but it was a good question. The very last thing they needed now was a rogue Jen Shepard. She'd calm down, he told himself; remember who she was and why she couldn't go out and look for Fraiser herself. But he knew that what she'd threatened was exactly what he'd do in her place – and, since he'd trained her, he also knew just how capable she was of making good on her threat.

"Not planning on finding out." He looked back at the photo and sighed, another body, another crime scene. "Ziva – get a copy of this photo out to Metro PD and then over to Abby. See if she can identify the body's location from the landmarks or the view. Then see if you can trace Simmonds' movements, I want to know where she lives, when she was last seen. Everything" She nodded and hurried off. He was grateful for her lack of comment, that at least someone had not felt the need to ask him if he was OK.

His cell rang and he grimaced when he recognised the number, this was not the best moment to have a conversation with Sec Nav, especially given the news he had to impart. Under normal circumstances this would be Jen's job, in fact he wondered why he was the one getting the call and hoped she didn't find out.

The conversation was worse than he'd expected – although blessedly brief. He confirmed that they had lost an agent at the scene, that another was injured, though expected to recover. He briefly described the Director's actions and that she was unharmed – he didn't add that she was pissed as hell, but suspected Sec Nav got the message anyway. Then it got difficult. In response to a question about possible suspects he had to mention Fraiser, describe what they had found at his apartment and then he talked about the letter left at the Director's house, the photograph of Colette Andrews. There was, he added, a strong possibility that Andrews was dead and it was Fraiser they were looking for in connection with the crime. It was pretty much a conversation killer.

"You got off light," Tobias commented when the call ended. Gibbs shrugged,

"Or we're not done yet." Sadly, this was one of the occasions when he was proven right.

He was outside talking to Ducky when his cell phone rang again, it showed a number he didn't recognise and for a moment he debated not answering. But the moment passed and he flipped open the phone and pressed it to his ear, "Gibbs."

His listened to the voice on the other end in growing disbelief, surely this was a particularly badly timed joke? Or not. Was it Ziva who had said that Jen was extremely well connected? At the time he'd agreed with her analysis but not really thought about the consequences. Now those consequences were hammering him over the head.

The orders he was being given were ones that he didn't agree with. But, someone he was fairly sure it wasn't prudent to argue with was giving them. Not that he allowed that to stop him, for all the good it did. He really disliked politicians.

* * *

Jen had taken refuge in her study – though under the circumstances it wasn't offering much in the way of sanctuary. It was too late for that. She wasn't surprised to hear the knock on the door, which didn't mean she had any intention of answering it. Of course Gibbs had ordered someone to stay with her, if only to ensure she had some form of protection. On another day she might have been amused to see who had drawn the short straw, but when Tony slid into the room she couldn't even rouse herself to turn around a look at him. 

So she ignored him, gazing out of the windows, which overlooked the back of the house. The garden was dark and still, blissfully removed from the jarring chaos of her driveway. If only she wasn't beginning to be scared of what the shadows held, it would be perfect.

"This might help," DiNozzo pressed a glass of brandy into her hands and she took it, knowing it was probably what she needed – but resenting that he had seen that need. She was still angry, the tantrum hadn't even taken the edge of it. She held the heavy glass in her hand and wondered if it would help to fling it across the room, smash it to a million pieces. Not that she would allow herself to lose control twice in such a short period of time.

"I don't need to be supervised in my own home."

"Just following orders Director, you know how Gibbs is."

"Well, try to be as unobtrusive as possible." Even as she said it she thought what she was asking. DiNozzo had probably never been unobtrusive in the whole course of his life and it seemed highly unlikely that he would succeed now. "I'm serious Agent DiNozzo, I don't want to talk, I don't need to be looked after and I can't help feeling that your talents would be better used trying to track down Fraiser."

"So, you're just going to hold onto all of this, act as though it's having no effect on you?"

"I'm going to do my job." She ground out.

"That's the Director speaking. Do you think it's the Director that Fraiser wants, or the woman who hides behind her?" She hadn't expected him to ask that question, hadn't expected him to have that much insight or courage. But it was convenient to treat him as though he had no substance, to not see past the bravado. It was because she felt guilty for falling into the trap that she let herself answer him.

"I don't know, I'm not sure that he does."

"And you won't let go – even for a second?"

"I can't."

"You need to rest," he had leaned close because they were speaking quietly. She had no illusions that he felt anything for her, except perhaps a lingering awareness that in some way they were alike. But, to the next person to walk into the room their conversation probably looked more, intimate than it actually was. Unfortunately that person was Gibbs.

"I told you not to let her out of your sight DiNozzo, I didn't know your eyesight was that bad." Tony actually blanched, which would have amused her if she didn't have a few other things on her mind right now.

"Boss, I was just, I'm going to – go and check how Ziva's doing."

"You do that."

There was a moment of silence, Jen sipped her brandy and watched Gibbs. His expression was revealing, if you knew what to look for. Something or someone had made him angry. "Something you need to tell me, Agent Gibbs?"

"I was going to ask you that. I've just received new orders – your personal safety is apparently more important than the successful conclusion of this investigation. And that safety is now my direct responsibility. Anything I need related to that, I only have to ask for. The only condition is I have to get you away from here and to somewhere safe."

"No," it was out of the question that she would submit to being sent away like a errant child, tucked out of sight for what could be weeks, if not months.

"I don't think it's up for debate."

"You can't tell me you think this is a good idea?"

"I'm following orders," she supposed there had to be a first time for everything.

"The last time I checked I was the Director of NCIS, I'm ordering you not to do this." He shook his head, almost managing to look sympathetic.

"Jen, do you seriously think that we would be having this conversation if the orders hadn't come from someone who outranks you? Your safety is apparently a matter of national security – highest possible priority." She laughed, a harsh bitter sound that should have scared her,

"It's got nothing to do with national security – it's politics!" She put the glass down on the desk and paced back and forwards. "I'm not accepting this." She ran through her options; she could resign, go to the press, make one hell of a fuss. She regretted the necessity of ruining her career, but it couldn't be helped.

When he stepped into her path she came to an abrupt halt, he was perhaps a little too close for comfort. "Don't do this," he said, without bothering to explain how he knew what she'd been thinking. "Don't throw everything away."

She started to speak, started to tell him that she would do what she thought best, that it was her life, her career. She might even have reminded him that he'd taught her to follow her instincts, taught her that no matter what stood in your way you had to get to the end of the investigation. But then he leaned closer still, brushed his fingers across her cheek and said the one thing that could still stop her in her tracks. "Trust me."

* * *

Mike Franks stretched; he was seated on the deck of his cabin, enjoying the cool of the night and the sound of the waves pounding the beach. It was late, almost midnight – but he was thinking about having another beer. There was no reason not to; his retirement meant there was no need to get up early in the morning, no one giving him orders. 

Just as he decided that perhaps another beer was in order the air around him seemed to shift and, all at once, the ocean wasn't the only thing he could hear. It took him a moment, but before it came into sight he recognised the low roar of a helicopter overhead. Wary now, he watched with growing disbelief as the helicopter lowered to the beach, its descent kicking up sand.

He pushed himself to his feet, knowing that his shot gun wasn't too far out of reach – but not certain yet that he would need it. Helicopters did not regularly land on the beach within sight of his home. He didn't need his investigator's instinct to tell him something was up.

He relaxed slightly when he recognised the tall figure that leapt from the helicopter. If Gibbs was here, it probably wasn't all bad; he thought it unlikely that the probie was here to arrest him. As he watched Gibbs pulled out a couple of bags, before reaching over to help another passenger climb out. Mike wasn't close enough to see the second person, now standing on the beach – though he could tell it was a woman. He thought he saw a flash of red in the helicopter's lights and he sighed, in his experience red heads and Gibbs always meant trouble.

From a safe distance his two visitors watched the helicopter depart before turning and starting to walk towards his cabin. Franks didn't feel the need to move, especially since now he could see who the woman was. Which didn't mean he had any idea what the Director of NCIS was doing on a beach in Mexico.

He watched their progress, they weren't talking, weren't even looking at each other. His eyes widened when he noticed the holster Gibbs wore and then realised that the Director was armed as well. What the hell was going on?

"Probie," he said by way of greeting.

"Mike,"

"That was quite an entrance,"

"We borrowed the transport, from a friend." Franks followed Gibbs' gaze as it slid to the Director; he didn't like the hollow look in her eyes, or the tension that emanated from her body. He didn't know the woman, but it didn't take much to realise that something was very wrong.

"What are you doing here Jethro?"

"We need a safe place to stay,"

"Who'd she piss off?" He jerked his head towards Shepard, not for a moment doubting that she was at the bottom of this and then almost reeled from the banked fury in her eyes.

"I told you this was a bad idea," she said, turning to Gibbs. Mike couldn't even interpret the look they exchanged, but she sighed, backing off. "You tell him."

"Somebody needs to – what the hell is going on probie?"

"It's a long story."

TBC


	6. Day 4: daytime

A/N - hi, thanks for the reviews. So, part 6 has less Jen angst, no more deaths and some other stuff! Although, actually I think it's still quite angsty. And the other stuff is... well, you'll see.

**Seeing Red – part 6**

'"Don't screw up," the words resounded; mantra-like in Tony's head, over and over until he seriously thought of slamming his skull into the wall of the elevator to see if the impact would make them stop. It was a given that the voice repeating the admonition sounded a lot like Gibbs.

But Gibbs wasn't here to speak the words out loud. He'd taken the Director and disappeared into the night and while Tony understood the necessity for their vanishing act, there was something a little disquieting about the fact that he didn't know where they'd gone. No one knew, except possibly Fornell – and he wasn't talking.

The details were still a little hazy; one minute they'd been investigating the shooting, the next there had been a phone call and suddenly he was having a hurried conversation with Gibbs about being in charge of the case. There had been the requisite instructions; telling him to make certain that Fraiser was their guy, to follow the investigation to its conclusion and use any advantage that came his way. Tony was still trying to figure out what that meant, just as he was still trying to work out if Gibbs and the Director were really lying low somewhere – or if they'd gone to pursue Fraiser on their own. If it was the latter, he really didn't think he wanted to know.

But, in their absence the investigation from hell had dropped into his hands. The team was his once more and as he exited the elevator to see their tired, dispirited faces, he knew it was up to him to keep them going.

They looked a lot like a group of people who'd been up for most of the night; slumped at their desks, heads down. Abby had escaped from her lab and was sitting at Gibbs' desk, shuffling disconsolately through his papers. From experience Tony knew she would take his absence hard, even though this time that absence was temporary.

"OK," everyone looked at him as he stood in the centre of the desks. "I know we're all tired, I know we're worried about Gibbs and the Director – but I'm sure they are fine. And they're counting on us to move this case forward. So, what do we have?"

"Metro PD found Colette Andrews' body about 4 hours ago," Ziva began, "Ducky has the body, the evidence we collected at the scene is here." Tony remembered all too vividly the little patch of waste-ground where the body had lain, this time there had been no dappled glade, no heart stopping moment of recognition at the sight of the victim. Not for them at least. This time it had been the Director who had recognised their victim and it was going to be a while before he forgot the expression in her eyes as she'd pushed past him the previous evening. "She was due at a meeting yesterday afternoon – but did not arrive. Our best guess is that she went missing at lunch time, since he knew her Fraiser would have had little difficulty in abducting her. Maybe he invited her to lunch."

"We have a BOLA out on his jeep," McGee added, "nothing so far, but if he's smart he'll have dumped it by now, started using something else. I haven't been able to find any other property registered in his name, he isn't using any of his credit cards, or bank accounts, his cell phone and internet accounts are inactive."

"Keep checking, he has to be somewhere," Tony pointed out, "he has to be using something to live on."

"I'm using a programme I developed to review his movements in the last three months," of course McGee had a programme – there was something reassuring about that. "I've fed in the Director's schedule, the places we know Fraiser had a reason to be for business and I'm looking for anomalies, somewhere he ate regularly or had coffee." It was a long shot – but he didn't have anything against long shots right now.

"What about the stuff we took from his apartment?"

"Well," Abby was still leaning her head on her hands, still looking depressed, "the good news is that I identified trace that matched places where two of the bodies were found."

"And the bad news?"

"There was no indication that any of the dead women had been in that apartment. He definitely has somewhere else to take them once he abducts them. Sorry,"

"Can't argue with the evidence – or the lack of it in this case." He sighed, this wasn't exactly helping to rebuild their energy." So, if Andrews went missing at lunch time, Fraiser didn't have long to abduct and kill her, dump the body and then make it back in time to shoot at the Director and her detail."

"It doesn't take long to drug someone and then strangle them," Ziva pointed out.

"But it does take time to travel between locations." Tony thought back to the apartment he'd stood in on the previous day, "he's obsessed with Shepherd, he thinks he's in love with her. He's had access to her schedule for months, he's used that information to stay close to her."

"Well, he can't go back to his job, so we've cut off that source of information," McGee pointed out, "we're fairly certain he's not using electronic surveillance methods. We haven't found any bugs or recording equipment."

"Too impersonal," Tony mused, "Fraiser is your hands on type of stalker. He'd want to be near her. Probie, check the houses within a couple of streets of the Directors'. Look for any houses that are empty – it's a fancy neighbourhood, someone's bound to be wintering in a warmer climate or taken a posting overseas."

There was a moment when nothing happened, when he realised that Ziva and McGee had probably forgotten that he was the one in charge. And then recognition clicked in and they bent over computer and phone to pursue the suggestion he'd made. It wasn't much to go on – but his gut, to borrow an overused concept, told him they were on the right lines. Sometimes you needed a little luck to break a case – though Gibbs would no doubt tell him that you make your own luck. But Gibbs wasn't here.

Tony looked over to where Abby was still sitting, her shoulders hunched, big eyes full of concern. "They'll be OK," he said quietly, "the Director knows how to handle herself – and Gibbs, well, he's Gibbs."

But even as he spoke he remembered the previous evening, remembered Jenny's intensity, the flickering speed of her emotions – and Gibbs' response to it. Tony suspected the other man hadn't even realised that he was responding and every fibre of his existence told him he didn't want to be in the vicinity when he, or they, figured it out.

* * *

Gibbs felt better after some sleep and a shower. It was a feeling that lasted until he emerged onto the deck, to find Mike fiddling with what might be fishing gear and no sign of Jen. His gaze swept along the beach and then came to rest on a lone figure sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, looking out at the waves crashing onto the shore. A baseball cap covered her hair and she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. It had literally been years since he'd seen her so casually dressed and in a crowd he might not have recognised her. But, on this empty beach there was no doubting her identity and even though he couldn't see her face, there was no mistaking the message of her body language. 

"How long's she been out there?" He asked over his shoulder. Mike looked up, followed his gaze and shrugged.

"A couple of hours. You think she's trying to decide whether or not to make a break for it?" Actually, he thought she was probably reflecting on four dead women and a murdered agent. He doubted she was planning anything as uncomplicated as an escape.

The previous night had not been without its tensions. Franks had never been a fan of the brass and was still having trouble coming to terms with the idea that NCIS had a female Director. He'd hardly bothered to hide the disrespect from Jen, who, on another day, could probably have charmed him into submission. But it wasn't another day – and the fact that she had met every one of his digs with a taut silence was almost as alarming as the fact that she'd scarcely got any sleep the previous night.

She'd left the two men sitting on the deck after they'd bought Franks up to speed, but when he'd gone to check on her some time later she'd been wide awake enough to reach for her gun at the first sound of footsteps. He'd only stayed long enough to grab something to sleep in, and to agree that she would take the mattress in the spare bedroom, while he would crash on the living room couch. But the walls in the cabin were thin and he had heard her moving around for hours, forcing himself not to go to her. He'd slept – finally, but if she'd been out here for as long as Mike said, then it was clear she had not.

"You going to tell me why you brought her here, rather than stashing her in a hotel room with half a dozen agents to sit on her?" He'd been expecting that question, had been moderately surprised that it hadn't been asked last night

"She's my responsibility."

"Bull!" Well, he supposed it was worth a try.

"She was my partner Mike, you go above and beyond for your partner – you taught me that," and having taught him this, his former partner was certainly not above calling on that relationship when he needed to.

"She's not your partner any more probie. Different rules apply to the Director." It was too accurate a statement for him to challenge and anyway it seemed that Mike was just getting started. "You know you aren't going to be able to save her." Gibbs looked towards his former mentor, shocked at the statement.

"I'm not going to let him hurt her." The curl of unease in his stomach was a warning that he hadn't understood, so he wasn't surprised when Mike shook his head.

"I'm not talking about this. I'm talking about you thinking you can stop her from getting swallowed up by the politics. You can't. Only she can decide which side she's on – she isn't going to be able to walk the line for ever."

"That isn't true. " But even as he said the words he knew that Mike was right, that everything he had done or said in relation to Jen since she had become the Director was predicated on the belief that, sooner or later, she would fall; unless he was there to remind her what the cost of such a fall would be.

"She'll disappoint you – if she hasn't already. You'll take it personally, blame her more that you'd blame anyone else in that position. You expect more from her."

"Because I know what she can do." Mike didn't reply, instead he muttered something under his breath that might have included the phrase 'red heads,' but Gibbs couldn't be certain and decided he didn't want to know.

When it came to Jen, he was a master of not thinking too much. He didn't let himself think about the way the air in a room seemed to change when they got a little too close, or when they fought. He didn't analyse what it meant that he noticed the sad expression she sometimes wore when Hollis was around, or dwell too much on the little tingle of pleasure he got from knowing he could make her jealous.

* * *

She looked up as he approached. He could see the traces of fatigue in her eyes, though the flash of anger and defiance there as well was surprisingly heartening. He never thought he'd be grateful that he could still make her angry. 

"Mike's going into town," he said, "it wouldn't hurt you to get some rest."

"I'm fine," her tone seemed to have effectively ended the discussion, he shrugged, not willing to debate the point.

"Then how about a walk?" She looked momentarily surprised, but pushed herself to her feet, dug her hands into her pockets and followed him. They walked in silence for a while, the warmth of the day, the breeze from the sea – it should have been pleasant, but the situation was too complicated for that.

"How long do you think we'll have to stay here?" She asked at last,

"Don't know."

"Somehow I doubt this was what 'they' expected when they made you responsible for my safety."

"We didn't discuss the details, the agreement was that I did it my way. Fraiser knows you Jen and he knows your schedule. If we'd stayed in DC he'd have still been able to find you, you'd be going to meetings, working." She stopped walking and looked at him,

"And instead we just sit here and wait? For how long?"

"He's obsessed, relentless – he won't stop until he has you. So far he's called all the shots. I know you hate this, but the truth is, you disappearing will make him panic, and then he doesn't have control anymore – we do."

"And while we're hoping to regain control I'm not running NCIS and my position is a lot more vulnerable than it was before all of this began."

"You think this is all a political conspiracy?" Admittedly that motive hadn't occurred to him – he considered it now, marginally concerned that he wasn't dismissing it as completely outlandish.

"I think my enemies are more than capable of taking advantage of this situation." It was an unwelcome reminder that he didn't understand her life, or the choices she had made. She'd been on the fast track long before they'd even met – idly he wondered if she had any idea what her next step on the career ladder was going to be.

"I hate that he's driven me into hiding," she said quietly, "that everything I've worked for is at risk. I hate feeling as though I have the blood of four innocent women and a damn good agent on my hands. But I won't be his victim." He couldn't promise that no one else would get hurt and knew she wouldn't ask that of him. But the reassurance escaped him anyway.

"Jen, we're going to stop him." She shrugged, clearly unconvinced and he put his hand on her shoulder before she could turn away. He wasn't prepared to see her look as though she didn't believe him.

The previous night he'd touched her cheek, he could remember the silky warmth of her skin against the rough pads of his fingertips. Now, that same hand rested on her shoulder in a gesture of support and companionship that would never have stumbled into something more - if his thumb hadn't touched her collarbone. He saw the pulse jump at the base of her neck and before he realised it had happened his fingertips had moved to brush lightly at the spot.

She moistened her lips, an involuntary action that moved them from warm to sizzling in less time than it took to blink. Suddenly they were teetering on the edge of the precipice and whatever happened next, he knew he couldn't be the one to send them over the edge.

* * *

"Jen," she wasn't stupid, she understood the look in his eyes, could read the yearning in the way he spoke her name. She could tell what he was offering and what he was holding back. His touch to the sensitive skin of her throat was more of a temptation than she'd expected. 

She thought they'd buried this, lost it a lifetime ago. But here they were and the attraction was as alive as it had ever been, just infinitely more complex. It was useless to pretend that it wasn't a huge boost to her ego that he wanted her. But did she know what she wanted from him? His friendship and respect; his trust? If she were honest she wasn't sure that was even on offer here.

"You know this beach doesn't even have a proper name." It wasn't like him to be fanciful and she wondered who he was trying to convince that this was a moment out of time, separate from their tangled present.

"And so what happens here doesn't count, people can't be hurt by it?" She was damned if she was going to be the one to mention Hollis. It wasn't her responsibility to remember that he was involved with someone else.

"People get hurt all the time." That sounded more like the authentic Gibbs, but she wasn't ready to let him get away with that.

"Last night DiNozzo asked me if I thought Fraiser wanted Jenny or the Director. Who is it that you want Jethro?"

"I'm not sure it's a good idea for me to want the Director," though she appreciated his honesty, she was disappointed by his answer.

"I'm not asking you whether it's a good idea – I'm asking what you want." His hand on her shoulder was warm, heavy with promise – a reminder of the things she couldn't allow herself. Yet, this was a way to take refuge from the storm and not have the moment of weakness used against her. Here was proof that someone could desire her and not demand her capitulation.

But he turned away, his decision apparently made. His hand slipped from her, lingering along her arm, his touch regretful. And then she realised that the move was hers, the game not yet played out.

"I didn't realise you were such a coward," she breathed, the words taunting him into turning back. As he moved she closed the distance between them, his mouth already opening in protest. But the words died on his lips, swallowed by her kiss.

He surrendered, responding hungrily to her, his arms surrounding her, pulling her close. She luxuriated in the heat and passion between them, savouring her victory. Until she realised there was every chance he had manoeuvred her into making the first move.

TBC


	7. Day 4: night

A/N - again, thanks for the reviews. I have to say, it was surprisingly difficult to get them into bed.

**Seeing Red – part 7**

There was something different about them, something Mike Franks couldn't quite put his finger on, though he could hazard a guess as to its cause. It wasn't sex – at least not yet; though he could see the possibility lingering between them, more pronounced now than before. The chemistry was apparent with every glance they shared, flickering like a beacon every time they came just a little too close.

He'd returned from his trip to town to find them on the deck. Gibbs had been on a ladder, repairing the roof that had remained untouched since his last visit, while Sheppard had been curled into a chair reading; though Mike suspected she was more involved in watching her companion. They didn't seem to be talking much, but the change was obvious, if you knew what to look for. The tension between them was still there – it was just entirely different.

It should have made him uncomfortable, it should have earned Gibbs a smack to the back of his head. But actually he was curious to see how the game would play out; which of them would make the final, decisive move.

He might not like or trust the woman but there was no doubt that Sheppard had investigated as many interesting cases as any of them. As the day slipped into night they ate, drank bourbon and shared the equivalent of war stories. He hadn't expected her to be such a good storyteller, describing her exploits with Jethro and Ducky with dry, well-observed humour. Listening to her he could picture the young investigator she'd been, struggling to learn from Gibbs while all the time he moulded her into a more unconventional agent than she would otherwise have been. The woman who emerged from the stories had a surprising willingness to find creative solutions to problems and a talent for talking her way out of trouble; it was an ability he was quite sure Jethro had nurtured.

They all told stories. Mike described his early attempts to teach Gibbs how to investigate a case. Jethro talked about his current team and they all wondered how it was possible for DiNozzo to be such a magnet for trouble and at the same time so good at what he did.

When Sheppard started to talk about some of the cases she'd been involved with on her own and about her attachment to Mossad, Gibbs' body language changed. It took Franks a moment of watching them, of wondering what the subtext was, before he realised that Jethro was hearing this for the first time as well. He didn't understand why – obviously they'd been out of touch for years, but after they'd started working together again it seemed Gibbs had done nothing to find out where she had been and what she had done. Which would be fine if she were nothing more than a casual acquaintance – but the evidence said that was the very last thing she was.

Eventually they lapsed into silence; he watched with interest as Shephard finished her drink, cradling her glass for a moment, looking as though she was trying to reach a decision. Finally she stood, "I'm going to bed." She didn't bat an eyelid when she looked up to find Mike watching her, but as she turned to head inside she trailed her fingers across Jethro's shoulders - her invitation clear.

Franks watched her exit, impressed despite of himself. Either she was supremely confident of what the response to her gesture would be, or blithely unconcerned. It was interesting that he was not entirely sure which of the two it was and wondered if Gibbs had the insight he lacked.

Jethro didn't move, though he acknowledged Mike's scrutiny with a wry smile. He reached for his glass cradling it for a moment in an unconscious echo of the woman who had just left them, before finishing the drink in a single, long swallow.

"You'll be out here for a while?" He asked.

Mike looked towards his shotgun, left within reach. "I can be out here all night." He watched the other man push himself to his feet. "Probie," he began, about to ask Gibbs if he knew what he was doing; but then thinking better of it. They were both adults and it was none of his business.

Gibbs tilted his head, raised an eyebrow and didn't say a word as he followed her inside.

* * *

"Jen," she was standing by the window in the small room, looking out into the night, but at the sound of his voice she turned. He crossed the room to her side and she tried to interpret the look in his eyes. It had, she reflected, been a lot easier to read him a couple of hours ago. 

"What are you thinking about?"

"You, on the beach this afternoon." It wasn't the answer she'd expected from him and it was far too close to her own thoughts for comfort. When it had occurred to her that he might have played her, she'd pulled away from the kiss. She'd been angry, aroused and so damn confused. It had taken several hours and a couple of shots of bourbon for her to realise that their encounter had demonstrated that he wanted her. Since she knew she wanted him, the only question was whether or not they were going to take this chance to do something about it.

She stiffened when he put his hands on her shoulders, knowing that he must be able to feel the tension in her muscles. She'd been getting by on anger since this had all begun, using it to hold the fear and vulnerability at bay. She wasn't ready to let go of that yet, despite the temptation of his touch – she wasn't sure she was ready to let anyone get close to her and in many ways letting him in was the biggest risk of all.

Earlier, when she'd questioned who it was he wanted his answer had been characteristically ambiguous; but his actions now seemed to belie that. He'd been watching her all night, his expression speculative but affectionate and he'd followed her. She knew there was nothing wrong in losing herself in a willing body for a few hours – it was the only type of refuge available to her. She wasn't worried about him, certain there was no danger of Jethro reading too much into this; she just wasn't sure she had the strength to protect herself.

But her doubts and questions drifted away as he pulled her a little closer, one arm sliding around her waist, his fingers toying with the buttons of her shirt. Her mind went blank, surely she was the one who was supposed to have control of this situation? "What are you doing?"

"Following my gut." Well, that was an answer of sorts. She relaxed, leaning into him a little more, letting him slowly unfasten the buttons and then slide the shirt off her shoulders. When she tilted her head she could see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on the task.

Hours before their passion had been a heady moment that had carried them away – though it had only carried them so far. It was easier to rouse a second time, easier to recognise the desire for what it was. She turned and touched his face, her eyes searching his; she had no idea what she was looking for, or whether she would find it. When he started to speak she shook her head, silencing him; there was nothing he could say that she wanted to hear.

It was amazing to be standing here; recognising that this was a moment when things were going to change between them. Even if there was never anything more between them than this night, still it would change things; bring turmoil in its wake. It might be the situation, it might be nostalgia – but he was here; warm and real and touching her as though he knew exactly what she needed.

She didn't turn away and neither did he. There was enough she couldn't control in her life - she was done with analysing this.

* * *

What would Gibbs do? It did seem to be the question of the hour – and Tony wasn't at all certain that he knew the answer. 

He was standing in the hallway of an empty house, perfectly aware that if he went outside into the driveway and squinted a bit he would be able to see the Director's driveway. The owners of this property were on a round the world cruise, the caretaker they had left in charge was missing – though a group of agents were currently investigating a suspicious patch in the garden. Of Fraiser there was no sign, but there was no doubt that he had been here, recently. Somehow Tony didn't think they had missed him by much.

There were pictures of the Director here as well – but unlike the ones they'd seen in Fraiser's apartment, these weren't displayed in an orderly fashion. They might have been at one point; but they'd been torn from the wall and now lay in pieces across the floor – someone who was very, very angry had evidently ripped them to shreds.

From the conversations he'd been privy to DiNozzo knew that Sec Nav was considering releasing Fraiser's details to the press and at the very least linking him to the attack on the Director, the deaths of a NCIS agent and a civilian employed in Sec Nav's own office. But Tony wasn't sure – he knew there was a value to warning the public, he understood that it might help them find a man who had a habit of disappearing from sight. But, on the other hand there would be sightings and false alarms that would need to be followed up and there was no guarantee that at the end of it they would be any closer to stopping him.

For the first time he was realising just what it meant to be in charge of this case without both Gibbs and the Director. When Gibbs had been gone he'd grown to handle the role of team leader, every day knowing he couldn't possibly fill the shoes of the man. But, Jenny had handled the politics and her confidence in him had somehow pulled him through. It was small comfort to know that if Gibbs had been here he'd likely be going crazy with the extent of scrutiny and interference in this investigation and the Director would be fully occupied in keeping him from destroying their relationships with other agencies. But neither of them were available and he knew he didn't have the Director's ability to handle politicians, which was why he was standing here trying to work out how Gibbs would react in this situation.

"This is where he brings the women when he abducts them," Ziva's arrival disturbed his reverie – which was probably a good thing. "We've found hair from several different woman and there's red lipstick in the bedroom." Tony winced, remembering the slash of red on the lips of the dead women.

"It's quiet here, the driveway is secluded," he agreed.

"And he'd like killing them knowing that Jen was close by." The slip surprised him; normally she was scrupulous about referring to the Director by her title. It occurred to Tony that they'd all pretty much forgotten that the two women had known each other before, had worked together. He was never really sure how close they'd been, and this wasn't the best time to indulge his curiosity. So he concentrated on Ziva as she took in the shredded photographs and concluded, "something has made him angry."

"Or someone. I don't think he is reacting well to the Director's disappearance."

"Then he's more dangerous now, yes?"

"Yes," he agreed. "But he still wants her." His phone rang and he opened it, recognising the number, "McGee – tell me something I don't know."

"Fraiser's mother died six months ago and left him quarter of a million. He closed the account and didn't redeposit the money." Well, that was a question he wished he hadn't asked.

"You're sure?"

"Yes boss,"

"Boss?" He queried, amused despite himself – he could imagine the McGeek kicking himself over the slip, "I didn't know you cared probie." He flipped the phone closed without waiting for an answer, knowing that this information would likely be enough to persuade Sec Nav to go public about Fraiser. "He's got a cool quarter of a million about his person," he told Ziva, "you might want to check to see if any luggage is missing – and get someone to run a check on vehicles registered to this address. If he's helped himself to their house I doubt he'd hesitate at stealing a car."

"You OK?"

"We don't know where Fraiser is, we don't know where Gibbs & the Director are. I don't think he's found them – but I'd feel happier if I knew where they were and what they were doing."

* * *

Gibbs woke when she slipped out of the bed. It was hours before dawn; too dark to see properly. But his eyes adjusted quickly and he lay still, not wanting her to realise he was awake. His stomach tightened as he realised she was dressing, slipping her holster around her waist. Everything he knew about her told him she was about to leave – he should have expected this. 

They'd made love and slept, then woken, made love and fallen asleep again. They'd been good together – rediscovering each other with ease. When they'd slept she'd kept her distance, shifting out of his embrace, close but not too close; her own woman even in this.

If this were any normal witness he was protecting he'd suspect they were running away, but he knew Jen and he was fairly sure she was about to do the absolute opposite. Either way, he couldn't allow it. For a moment the memory swam before his eyes – the last time they'd been lovers she'd left without explanation as well

"If you're planning to go looking for Fraiser, you'll need back up," he said just as she reached the door. "I know you work best on your own Jen – but not this time." It was hard to tell for sure, but he thought she leaned her head against the door and in the silence he heard her sigh.

"I told you I couldn't just sit here and watch the body count rise."

"And I told you to trust me." The realisation that she didn't was sobering, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Until he remembered how few people he trusted – they were much more alike than either of them wanted to admit. "What were you planning to do, shoot Mike if he got in your way? Will you shoot me if I try to stop you?"

"They can't catch him without me," it was not arrogance that enabled her to reach that conclusion, "I'm the bait."

"I know." He could tell that she was considering what he'd said, he could almost hear the wheels turning in her mind.

"So, I'm out of sight for a couple of days; long enough to panic him. Then we go back and hope that he's rattled enough to try to get to me - is that the plan Jethro?" When she put it like that he was aware just how risky it sounded.

"Didn't say it was perfect."

"Just out of curiosity, when were you planning to tell me?" He felt her movement – knew that despite her need to be doing something, she was actually edging closer to the bed. He could have answered that it was need to know, but this wasn't a good moment to incur her anger. And the truth was, he had been waiting for her to work it out for herself.

"I'm telling you now," he could feel her hesitation, "Jen – I want to catch him just as much as you do."

"And we'll go back tomorrow?"

"The day after," he bargained – knowing that she needed the rest, even if she wouldn't admit it.

He heard her footsteps, the rustle of her clothing as she undressed and then the bed dipped under her weight. He reached for her, letting out a breath as she came willingly into his arms and he stroked his fingers up and down the length of her spine.

She kissed him, moving over him fluidly, their bodies surrendering to what was already coming naturally to them once more – yet somehow a little of his frustration leaked out. He hadn't intended to hurt her, but he knew he'd held her just a little too tightly, that he'd likely left bruises. And she'd read his emotions far too easily, breathing "I'm sorry," into his ear at a moment when he was in no position to remind her that apologies were a sign of weakness. He had no idea what she was apologising for.

Afterwards she slept, once again not quite in his arms. He lay awake, watching her, the first rays of light casting shadows across her skin that his fingers itched to trace. He knew he'd never ask her if she'd done this deliberately – whether she hoped her seduction would make him tired enough to allow her sneak out. It was a question he didn't need to know the answer to and the truth was, she hadn't had to try to seduce him.

Suddenly he was reluctant to allow her the distance her sense of self-preservation craved – but it wasn't a feeling he was prepared to analyse. He pulled her towards him until her back was against his chest and their legs were tangled together - ignoring her sleepy murmur of protest. What mattered was that if she was planning to escape again, she was going to have to find a way to disentangle herself without waking him. He was fairly sure she didn't stand a chance.

TBC


	8. Day 6: daytime

A/N - thanks for the reviews. On reflection I think this story is more about Jen than I intended it to be. But that's OK. There's less relationship angst and more of the case in this part.

**Seeing Red – part 8**

The weather was terrible in comparison to Mexico – grey and dark, it had rained all night and showed no sign of stopping anytime soon. Gibbs sat at his desk, leafing through the papers that had accumulated in his absence, including the updated notes of their current investigation. DiNozzo had done a good job – finding Fraiser's hiding place had been particularly smart; but he wasn't planning on sharing that.

"Boss. You're back!" Tony came to a dead stop when he emerged from the elevator and saw Gibbs. Ziva's sharp as cat reflexes allowed her to sidestep her partner; McGee was less fortunate and crashed into Tony sending them both off balance.

"Well observed DiNozzo." His expression was a mixture of chagrin and relief and Gibbs couldn't say he blamed him. It was a hell of a case to get stuck with, the politics were already giving him a headache.

"Weren't you with the Director when you left?" Tony asked,

"I still am, she's in her office." At least he hoped it was still her office. The plan to draw Fraiser out depended on Jen's ability to persuade her political patrons to let her risk her own life – in a good cause. Normally he wouldn't doubt her skill in getting what she wanted, but she'd returned home to find her face splashed all over the media; the story of the vicious stalker who was targeting her being discussed everywhere. They both knew if she'd been here she'd never have allowed that to happen – the question now was whether she could regain enough control to put in place the plan they'd devised.

"Is she all right?" Ziva asked, Gibbs shrugged in response to a question he'd been giving a lot of thought to over the last few days.

"She's the Director," he responded, getting to his feet and collecting his coffee cup, "I want Fraiser found."

When he arrived at her lab Abby was deep in thought, chin in hands, gazing at her computers as they'd processed something – as though she was communicating with them, and perhaps in her own way she was. He set the Caff Pow by her elbow and kissed her on the cheek.

"Gibbs! You're back." She hugged him and then held him at arms length, "how's the Director?" For the second time he avoided the question, though it was harder to do so with her.

"What do you have?" She pouted for a moment and then fixed him with a gaze so clear and wise he was certain she'd seen some of the things he would much rather keep hidden. "Abs," he chided gently.

"It's going to be all right."

"Good." He wasn't sure their definition of 'all right' was the same, but he'd take all the confidence he could get. She nodded and switched topics.

"OK boss man – so, I know everything there is to know about Captain Bradley Fraiser. I know his date and place of birth, I know his favourite foods and where he does his grocery shopping. I even know where he buys his underwear and what type – in case you're interested,"

"I'm not."

"We know he has a large amount of cash with him, so he's not using any cards, he isn't using his cell phone or email account - but he hardly did before he vanished. This is a guy with no friends, which probably explains how he had time to become a really good stalker. His activity online was minimal – no chat rooms, no online gaming, no purchases."

"You're telling me you can't find him?"

"I can tell you where he's been – I can't tell you where he is, except…" She bit her lip and looked a little frightened, "chances are – he's wherever the Director is, or close by." There was no arguing with that conclusion, "maybe you shouldn't have bought her back Gibbs – he's really angry, we found more photographs of her, they'd been ripped to shreds."

Fraiser was in the wind – and Gibbs didn't like it. He was a highly organised, highly intelligent criminal who knew exactly what he wanted or, in this case, who he wanted and he was single-minded in that pursuit. He didn't just want to snatch Jen – he wanted to force her to capitulate and he'd already proven that he was prepared to kill for that. Abby was right she wasn't safe, but what choice did they have?

"Gibbs – you OK?" He was about to tell her that he was fine, but someone else got there first.

"He didn't get much sleep last night." Her voice was laced with humour and when he turned to look at her Jen raised an eyebrow, daring him to respond. "Protection duty isn't exactly fun, is it Jethro?"

"Depends on who you're protecting, Director." He guessed she'd got her own way, she didn't look like a woman who'd just resigned, or was about to be forced into protective custody. Abby was watching their interaction with interest, but she didn't seem to see anything unusual or out of the ordinary about it – which was either reassuring or alarming, depending on how you looked at it.

They looked at each other for a moment longer, a communication without the need for words and he felt a curl of unease because he recognised the expression in her eyes. "Something you need to tell me?"

"ZNN has asked for an interview, I've agreed. I'm talking to them this evening – but they are going to trail it all day."

"No," she raised her eyebrow at his unequivocal response, "this isn't what we discussed."

"This is better,"

"Who for Jen?" It was too dangerous, she knew it and she was going to push for it anyway. They'd reviewed the appointments that had been in her diary for a while, ones Fraiser would likely know about; they'd discussed controlled environments and calculated risks – this wasn't what he'd had in mind. "It's a bad idea."

"I need to do this." He knew what it was about of course, knew the moment Sec Nav released details of the investigation she'd have find a way to manage the story. She spoke with finality and there was little point in arguing with her, though that wouldn't necessarily stop him. He couldn't say her actions were a surprise; she was doing what she had to do to survive – he could see that. But he didn't have to like it.

"You're taking a risk Director," he said, not doing a very good job of hiding his irritation.

"Your objection is duly noted Agent Gibbs," she responded with almost the same amount of anger.

He was struggling to remember that only a few hours had passed since they'd broken their tacit agreement that what had happened between them in Mexico couldn't happen here. In truth, they'd barely put up a token resistance. They'd returned to his house late the previous night, after a roundabout journey and he'd taken her to his bed as though they'd been lovers for years. There had been a message from Hollis on the answer machine, but even that hadn't been enough to make him to hesitate. At some point one of them, possibly him, had said "are you sure?" but by then it had been a strictly rhetorical question. They'd stumbled up the stairs, shedding clothes as they went, too wrapped up in each other to notice that the message had still been playing as they tumbled onto the covers.

But they weren't long term lovers, they couldn't be and he knew he had to remember that. It was the kind of lapse that could easily get someone killed.

"Talk to Abby about what you need," he said, not wanting to argue about this any longer. "I have to go and arrange security for your publicity tour."

* * *

He was still annoyed with her hours later – though this was hardly anything new. Trails of her live interview were all over ZNN – it seemed that every time he looked at a screen her image was on it. He knew there was no chance at all that Fraiser would miss the interview, that even if he didn't use it as a chance to get to Jen he would read signals and signs into whatever she said. And they'd have to deal with the consequences of his interpretation of her words. 

Resources to protect her weren't exactly thin on the ground, but co-ordinating across agencies was a complex task in itself and not something he enjoyed. He knew who he trusted, who he could rely on and apart from a small group of agents hand-picked by Fornell, they all worked for NCIS.

"Everyone wears vests," he said in a tone that brooked no argument. Around him the assembled group of agents nodded, but he looked over his shoulder – knowing that only one person was likely to ignore that instruction, "including you Director." She raised her eyebrow and he knew what she was going to say, "take it off during the damn interview if you must, but otherwise you wear it."

He was still worried about the woman herself – about what she might do if pushed. This was very, very personal and the only strategy they had for ending it involved dangling her out in front of someone intent on her subjugation. There was no way this ended well and he had yet to work out how she would deal with the fall out. He didn't think there was much chance she'd let him get close enough to help and he wasn't sure he'd be much use to her anyway.

"Boss," DiNozzo looked up, his cell phone jammed to his ear, "we've got something – a sighting of Fraiser, in a car but the partial plate is a match."

"Get your stuff," he instructed as he turned towards Jen. She was due to leave for the interview shortly. Even if this turned out to be a false alarm there was no way they'd make it back in time to go to ZNN with. "Could be a trap," he said quietly, "lure us to one place, get us out of the way."

"Leaving me with just a small army of agents to protect me? I'll be fine Jethro." Still he hesitated, working the odds – he could send some of the team, but if it were a genuine sighting he needed to be there to bring Fraiser in. On the other hand, he hadn't intended to place her in harms way without being there to watch her back. "Go," she said quietly, "I'll be careful." He nodded, then turned to his team, scanning their faces; expectant, intent on the hunt – they wanted Fraiser too. He might be just about to deny one of them that opportunity.

"Officer David, stay with the Director," Ziva nodded, her expression unreadable and dropped her stuff back onto her desk. He didn't miss Tony's smirk – which earned him a slap and the comment, "you should worry why I didn't pick you, DiNozzo."

* * *

Everyone was looking at her – but then she did come with her very own armed entourage and an Israeli assassin for a bodyguard. It could be that was the kind of thing that gets you noticed, even in the offices of ZNN. 

It was just possible she was feeling a little paranoid – and while, under the circumstances that was entirely justified, still she wouldn't want anyone to recognise it. Live interviews were pressurised at the best of times, live interviews where you try to simultaneously rescue your career and reach the person threatening your life fall into a special category of hell. But there were very few other options.

She knew she'd squandered political capital just to get here. In her world Gibbs, Ducky and Mike Franks were not the only chauvinists around and there were undoubtedly people whispering that she couldn't take the pressure, that it was not her fault – but she couldn't be Director of NCIS and the victim of a dangerous stalker. If this desperate gambit failed she might as well resign and go and sit on a beach somewhere because her career would be as good as over and, despite some possible advantages to no longer being Director of NCIS, she wasn't ready to become Mike Franks yet.

Would anyone care if this mess cost her the career she'd sacrificed far too many things for? Would Jethro tell her she was too good to walk away, the way she'd once told him – or would he just let her go?

This wasn't a good moment to think about Jethro – she'd been taking refuge in him too readily and she couldn't afford to get used to it. She shouldn't have stayed with him last night – shouldn't have crossed the line they'd drawn. But it was hard not to reach out for comfort when everything else was so messed up, especially comfort that came with so few strings.

She was playing a cat and mouse game with someone who squandered life as though it meant nothing. She'd counted on Gibbs being within sight when she made this move, but in the moment when she could have asked him to be here she'd agreed he should investigate the possible sighting. Had she done that because it was the right thing to do, or because she wanted to prove to herself – and him, that she could face this alone?

"The interview went well," Ziva said as they stood watching the bustling studio. Jen considered, not sure what the success criteria was for an interview that involved talking to two audiences at once – the killer who believed he was in love with her and the politicians waiting to see if she'd survive the fire. There was no doubt who was the most dangerous – but her political masters could still cause damage. The agency was small, easily swallowed up amidst intense competition for resources and prestige. In this game, being good was only enough for so long. "Do you think he saw it?"

"Unless Gibbs has picked him up." She accepted her vest and weapon from Ziva, "he won't be able to stop himself from watching and when he does see it, he won't like me appearing calm and in control."

"You sound sure,"

"Some things you just know."

"Did you just know they were going to ask about your personal life?" Jen frowned; remembering the question Ziva was referring to. A researcher had talked her through the content of the interview in general terms and in that conversation a question about whether she was seeing anyone had definitely not come up.

"My life is in the spotlight – suddenly complete strangers think it's legitimate to ask if I'm single at the moment."

"You handled it well, but then you always lie well – when you have to."

"I wasn't lying," she was almost sure Ziva was on a fishing expedition, there was no way she knew anything for sure.

"If you say so." Now she knew she was being baited and she stamped down on the impulse to defend herself, to point out that she'd been a little too busy to meet anyone recently. She didn't want to give Ziva any excuse to wonder what she and Gibbs might have done while they were out of sight, together. Her cell phone rang and she answered it with relief, hoping it was Jethro calling with good news.

"Sheppard,"

"Director Sheppard? My name is Paige – we met earlier, I talked to you before the interview,"

"Yes, is something wrong?" Ziva had turned away, no doubt scanning the area for possible threats, letting her take the call with some modicum of privacy – but Jen caught her arm, drawing her attention back.

"There's someone here who wants to talk to you," she curled the fingers of her free hand into a fist, nails digging into her palm. She wished she was wrong about what this was, but as soon as she heard the man's voice she knew she wasn't going to be.

"She has red hair Jenny." She remembered the researcher now, pretty, friendly, with bright auburn curls cascading down her back. She couldn't have been much more than twenty.

"Please don't hurt her." Ziva was speaking into her own cell, no doubt ordering a trace on the call.

"I don't want to hurt her, it's up to you. You know what I want."

"Where are you?"

"Just you, not your friends."

"I can't do that – they won't let me come alone, you know how over-protective they can be. But I think we need to talk, don't you? Face to face?"

"That's all I want – we're in the car park across the street; basement level." He ended the call and she looked over at Ziva.

"Director?"

"He has a hostage – he wants to speak to me."

"What are you going to do?"

"Give him what he wants."

* * *

Ziva was beside her as they reached the basement, the rest of the detail fanned out around them, looking for some sign, some movement. She and Ziva saw it at the same moment and Ziva unceremoniously shoved her behind a pillar. The shot went wide, by quite a lot. 

"Hold your fire!" The order was hers, her tone making it clear where the authority lay – for now anyway. She was very aware that she was just about to place herself in a situation where she would be effectively powerless, with only her wits to keep her alive. She shivered.

"I know you're here Jenny," his voice echoed in the cavernous space and she took in their position. There were six of them, they had numbers on their side, but the young woman with Fraiser, his gun touching the side of her head, put the outcome of this situation in question. Only she could change the ending.

Ziva's eyes widened as she shrugged out of the vest and bent to place her weapon on the ground. She unfastened her ear wig as well and then turned to the other agent, "I'm going to try and get him to release her, take me instead. As long as Fraiser has a hostage I am ordering you to let him leave. We don't need a shoot out here." And then before Ziva could argue or stop her, she stepped out from behind the pillar, into his line of sight.

She wished he looked more like a monster. But Bradley Fraiser; tall, angular, with rather sharp features and piercing blue eyes was actually good looking – in an austere kind of way. His bearing suggested the aloof, intolerant man she'd read about in personnel reports and she was suddenly very glad that she and Jethro had become lovers. It was messy, complicated and there was very little chance that things would work out between them, but it was warm and all too human.

"Hello Jenny." His greeting was commonplace – as though there was no death or violence in the background to this meeting, as though armed men and women weren't following their every move.

"If you let her go, I'll come with you. They'll let us leave."

"You can just expect me to forgive you – not after all the terrible things you've made me do." In her head she heard an achingly familiar voice telling her that an apology was a sign of weakness – and never thought she'd be glad of the advice.

"I'm sorry." She didn't embellish, didn't overplay it, but she hoped it sounded as though she meant it. Everything depended on her ability to make him believe her words, despite his anger and obsession. "I wasn't expecting this to happen," she said carefully, searching for a flicker of an expression that would tell her she was on the right track. "I didn't think anyone would love me this much."

She was closer to him now; close enough to see that the young woman he held was white with fear, trembling in his grasp. She wished there was a way she could reach out to her, offer her a small crumb of reassurance – but it was too risky.

"I killed for you, I'm the only one. No one has ever loved you the way I do." God she hoped that was true; she'd gladly spend the rest of her life alone if this was the only other alternative.

"I'm sorry," she breathed again, borrowing the words and the feelings behind them from when she'd whispered them to Gibbs, in a bed in a small cabin in Mexico. Already it seemed like a lifetime ago. "I understand now, I'm ready to be with you. I'll give up everything if that's what you want."

"We'll be together for all time," his words were a pastiche of every romantic dream from her adolescent years and she there was something very sad about how tarnished those dreams had become. But she wasn't a child or a hopeful adolescent anymore – she knew love was not about losing yourself and did not demand surrender. Whatever he took from her, whatever the cost, Fraiser couldn't do nothing to change that.

"I want that." She looked towards the girl, "but I don't want you to hurt anyone else because of me. Can't you let her go?"

"I'll let her go when we're safe." He nodded towards the dark SUV, "get into the car."

"No one is going anywhere." The fragile connection between them was broken when Ziva stepped into their path, her gun pointing directly at Fraiser, who responded by tightening his grip on Paige. He might not be a sniper – but Jen knew he wouldn't miss that shot; even if Ziva did shoot him, he'd still pull the trigger and kill her. She couldn't allow that to happen.

Her movement put her between Ziva and her target, "Officer David, I'm ordering you to stand down." She took a few steps closer, just far enough for Fraiser not to be able to hear everything. "It's all right Ziva," she whispered a few lines in Hebrew – her fluency a little rusty, hoping she was getting through to her.

A muscle in Ziva's jaw tightened and Jen recognised the battle that raged within her, a battle in which the past fought with the present. Everything Ziva had been taught before coming to NCIS told her to shoot, while everything she had learnt from Gibbs told her there might still be a way. It was a battle Jen knew she had no further influence over. But then, slowly, Ziva lowered her weapon and took a step backwards. Her final words were soft, full of meaning – the only thing that she could give in this moment.

"Shalom Jen."

TBC


	9. Day 6: evening

A/N - thanks for the reviews. I had some trouble with this chapter - being British I was concered that we call our campus buildings by slightly different names - so I understand if you have no clue what I am going on about. Also, I know I'm ignoring locations, distances and security processes for the convenience of the story - sorry.

**Seeing Red – part 9**

"What else did she say?" Gibbs demanded. The sighting had been a false alarm, a mistake by an over-zealous traffic cop. It wasn't even a set-up intended to leave Jen exposed; just a stupid mistake; nothing more than bad luck and worse timing. They'd been just about to head back to base when Ziva called,

"She said, rule number 7 applies." Her voice was distorted through the speaker phone – but even so the strain was apparent. Gibbs could see her point; she'd stood by as the Director of NCIS gave herself up to a vicious stalker – the only justification that she'd been ordered to do so by the woman herself. He knew it must have been difficult for her, he'd considered who would be most able to handle the possibility when he'd decided who to send with Jen. He wasn't sure Ziva would ever thank him for that dubious honour.

"Is 7 the one about coffee?" Tony enquired quietly – making him regret putting the call on speaker so they could all hear it.

"No DiNozzo – it's not the one about coffee."

"Rule number 7 is 'always be specific when you lie,'" McGee offered and no one, not even Tony, had a smart come back for that.

"Get Abby on the phone," Gibbs said over his shoulder, stamping down on the impulse to jump into the car and head off in pursuit – not least because he had no idea where Jen and Fraiser were heading. "Ziva, you did the right thing. It's what we planned." For now he ignored the fact that the plan had also involved him being with her when she confronted Fraiser.

"What do you want me to do now?" Ziva asked.

"Stay where you are until we call you with a location," he glanced over towards McGee as he ended the call, "is that Abby?" He accepted McGee's phone; "talk to me Abs."

"The trace is active – I'm patching it through to McGee's phone, you'll be able to track her." At least something had gone right, they had a way of finding her – she hadn't vanished off the face of the earth.

"Thank you,"

"She'll be OK Gibbs,"

"I know." He handed the phone back to McGee so Abby could explain what she was sending him.

"You put a trace on the Director?" DiNozzo said, "did you tell her?"

"What do you think?" Tony shrugged and on any other day Gibbs might have slapped him – but he didn't have time for the reprimand. Instead he looked over at McGee; "do you have it?"

"Yes boss,"

"OK lets go – McGee, you're with me." He was halfway to his car when he realised McGee wasn't following him. "Now McGee!"

"Just a minute boss," he was gazing at the data on his phone, his concentration apparant, "Abby and I have spent a lot of time studying Fraiser, we know his movements – he might go somewhere familiar."

"He's been out of sight for two days," DiNozzo countered, "we've looked in all the places he usually goes and haven't been able to find him. And right now we don't need to." McGee stood his ground,

"But, if we can use what we know about him alongside the trace we might be able to work out his destination. If we do that we can go straight there – we won't need to follow the trace."

"And how do you suggest we do that probie, we aren't psychic?" Gibbs listened to the by-play, concentrating on McGee. He was biting his lip, studying the information from the trace, but he looked as though he knew what he was doing. Every second they stood around was time that Jen would have to maintain her act, he was taking a calculated risk – and not with his own life.

"McGee," he said, "the Director's good but let's not rely on her ability to get Fraiser to trust her for too long, no one's that good. If she manages to persuade him to release the hostage, she'll have to try to get away from him. He won't let her go easily."

"Sick bastard," Tony muttered – a sentiment that Gibbs shared, but didn't want to dwell on right now.

"Clock's ticking McGee."

"The Naval War College," he said abruptly, "they're heading in that direction, they could still turn off – but,"

"It's where he first saw her." He nodded, certain that Fraiser would be pulled by the symbolism of the location. "Good call Tim."

As he drove McGee sat beside him, studying the trace in case their guess was wrong, he didn't say much and Gibbs was grateful he realised that this was not a time for ideal conversation. All the time he drove he was thinking about Jen and calculating – what she could say, what she might have to do, how long she'd be able to hold on.

* * *

Jen thought her heartbeat sounded loud in the silence of the SUV and she was surprised that no one else seemed able to hear it. Fraiser had been silent as she manoeuvred through the rush hour traffic – except to give her occasional directions. He must know that people were going to be searching for the car and it was starting to worry her that they had not changed vehicles yet. The optimist in her wanted to believe that this meant their destination was not too far away – and that help would be able to get their sooner. But that voice was a quiet one, drowned out by other, far darker thoughts. 

He was so intent, so resolute that she was starting to be frightened of what might happen when they reached wherever he was heading for. This, she told herself, was a hell of a time to realise what she had got into. Her only comfort was the small metallic device that Abby had taped to her hip before she left for the ZNN interview. It was the key to rescue, transmitting her location to Abby – to Jethro and the others. She wasn't alone. And the small knife taped to her back meant that she had a way to defend herself, if it became necessary. Though she knew that a knife would offer little protection against a bullet.

When, eventually, they reached their destination she decided that if she got out of this alive, she was going to make sure security at the Naval War College received a serious up grade. There was no way Fraiser should have been able to gain access so easily and he absolutely shouldn't have been able to get into the lecture hall by the small service entrance. She looked over at Paige who'd been blindfolded and who they were now leading through the deserted corridors; she could hear her quiet sobs and knew she was terrified. Silently she promised the girl that she would get her out of this.

"This is where I saw you for the first time," Fraiser said as he led both women through a final door. Jen turned, finding herself on the stage of the lecture hall, looking out at the tiered rows of seating. She remembered the evening all too clearly - until this began it had been a good memory, an accomplishment she was proud of. She fought back the shiver that crept up her spine; because this wasn't a hiding place or a stop along the journey. This was a place to make a statement – and the thought of what that statement might be scared the hell out of her. "All I could think about was how beautiful you were and that I had to find a way to talk to you." He hadn't touched her yet, but now his fingertips traced along the curve of her cheek. It was a lovers gesture and she let her eyes slide shut so he wouldn't see the revulsion in them.

"We're talking now," she said, hoping that he didn't hear the way her voice trembled, or if he did that he interpreted it as a reaction to his caress.

"It's too late now." She shook her head.

"It's not too late – let Paige go and we'll disappear together, just you and me." She lifted her hand to where his still rested on her cheek. "It's my fault, let me make it up to you." She was playing for time now, prepared to do anything to draw this out, to give help time to arrive. But it seemed that nothing she said or did could change his mind.

"They won't let us be together. There's no other way."

"I don't understand." He still had a gun; she couldn't risk trying to get away from him when he might still shoot Paige. He'd brought a backpack with him and as she watched he pulled out a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"I want to drink to us – to our life together." The wine was drugged, she knew it as soon as she saw that the bottle had been opened and the cork jammed into the top. She remembered the sleeping tablets that they'd found in the systems of some of the other victims and the realisation slammed into her full force. This was a murder suicide. He was going to kill her and then kill himself in some mistaken belief that they'd be together forever. Anger swamped her fear – she'd see him in hell before she'd let him do that. "It won't hurt, I promise – I'd never hurt you."

"Don't do this," she breathed, moving closer to him.

"I have to." He knelt, and she let him draw her down with him, not protesting, as it was easier to reach the knife from this position. She couldn't wait for rescue now, "drink the wine Jen." When she hesitated he lifted his arm, pointing the gun at the place Paige huddled on the floor. "Drink the wine," he repeated.

She took a breath and slowly raised the glass of red wine to her lips; he watched, looking almost entranced as she took one swallow – then another. There was no doubt that he was as much in love with death as he was in love with her. Holding his gaze with her own, drawing out every moment she carefully edged her free hand back, inching up her jacket and shirt to reach the knife taped just beneath her shoulders.

It came away easily and she shifted the knife in her hand to get a better grip, praying that the sweat on her palm wouldn't make it too slippery – she was only going to get one chance with this. In a single, fluid moment she threw the remains of the wine in Fraiser's face and as he reared away from her she stabbed him in the thigh. His arm jerked and she slammed her shoulder into him as he howled with pain. She grabbed for the gun as he let go, but she missed and it slid across the floor out of reach. She pulled the knife free and aimed for his arm, stabbing him again – knowing that unless she got lucky and hit an artery the injuries wouldn't impede him.

She skidded over to Paige and pulled the blindfold off before freeing her hands with the bloodied knife. "Go," she ordered, pulling the girl to her feet almost roughly and pushing her towards the door they'd come in through. She didn't waste time seeing that she obeyed the order, Fraiser was on his feet now and she had to get to him before he found the gun.

"You bitch," he rammed into her before she turned and together they fell to the ground, her head hit the stage and she saw stars, the knife slipping from her fingers as the weight of his body pushed the air from her lungs. She struggled and fought with everything she had. She had no idea how much of the drug she'd ingested, how long before it started to have an effect.

She jabbed her knee into his groin, his hold loosening for long enough to allow her twist from his grasp. He caught her leg and she fell again – then kicked out, scrambling away from him in the momentary freedom she gained. Her only option was to run forward, to fling herself off the stage, wrenching her ankle as she landed heavily and then sprinting for the stairs and the exit sign at the top.

She just had to fight for a little longer, help was on the way, Jethro wouldn't leave her to die.

* * *

The last thing Gibbs heard as they burst through the doors that lead to the lecture hall was the sound of sirens – but they couldn't afford to wait for reinforcements. McGee was in his good books right now, because his guess about Fraiser's destination had been dead on and they'd made good time getting here. Time that could have been lost, if they'd had to negotiate with the college authorities to gain entry. But he'd had Tony call ahead and as a result they'd gained access to the campus easily. And Jen's trace had led them to the right building. 

He didn't want to think about how recklessly Ziva must have driven to get here in time to join them. His own progress through the rain slicked streets had been just as heedless.

When they found the girl, hysterical, terrified – but unharmed, he sent McGee back with her and then hurried on with Tony and Ziva at his heels. The lecture hall was empty, but the hollow echo of a door slamming shut high above them told him that they needed to keep moving.

Out of the corner of his eye he noted the signs of a struggle on the stage. The overturned glass, a pool of red wine staining the expensive floor, a bloodstained knife cast aside as though it had been knocked out of someone's hand. No way of telling whose blood it was – no time to stop to find out.

He pushed himself up the stairs; past the rows of seating, his team at his heels. All of them determined, focussed; the Director's life in the balance. In this moment he couldn't afford to think of her as Jen.

The exit they burst through led onto a corridor – the choice was right, left or up another flight of stairs that looked as though it led to the roof. He sent Ziva and Tony along the corridor and took the stairs himself. The sound of his footsteps clanged on the metal tread; the fire exit was shut, blocked from the outside, but it gave way at his kick, hardly the most silent of entrances. There was no way of hiding his pursuit.

As he crouched low, scanning the area, all he could think was that he really hated rooftops.

He stepped away from the entrance, weapon drawn, circling slowly. It was dark now and the safety lights someone had deemed sufficient to illuminate the roof were not exactly bright. He moved from one pool of gloom to another, listening, watching – hoping for a sign.

Or a scream. He followed the sound and rounded the corner to see Fraiser trying to drag Jen towards the edge of the roof. Trying being the operative word, since she was fighting him every step of the way. He couldn't help but think of his reaction at the first crime scene, in the split second when he'd thought the body was hers. His vision of her raging and struggling to the last, had turned out to be a prophetic one. The woman before him was fighting with every ounce of strength she had, but even he could see that she was tiring; that Fraiser was stronger, that the edge of the roof was getting closer.

"Fraiser!" The man froze at the sound of his name and then looked back over his shoulder; he didn't look a lot like a man contemplating surrender. "Let her go," Gibbs ground out – using the opportunity to edge closer.

"Not going to happen," Fraiser pulled Jen to her feet, using her body as a shield – a mistake as it happened, but he couldn't be expected to know that. Gibbs moved, carefully, closer still.

"There's nowhere to go," he pointed out – in what might pass for a reasonable tone of voice if you didn't know him well. His finger itched on the trigger.

"There's always somewhere to go," Fraiser shuffled closer to the edge – which was all Gibbs needed to be convinced that he wasn't going to be able to talk him down. He had every intention of going over and taking Jen with him; the only question was whether he could be stopped.

He focussed his atterntion on his former partner. She'd stopped struggling and was looking him dead in the eye, even in the half-light he could read the determination in her expression. They'd been in this position once before, years ago – albeit without the edge of the roof to worry about. And he was just about to gamble a lot on her memory.

The feint was the start of it, a flick of his foot sending pebbles skittering off to the right. Fraiser reacted – his gaze drawn towards the direction of the sound, just enough distraction to allow Jen to jab her elbow, hard, into his stomach and then pull away as he doubled over. Fraiser's recovery was fast, or else she was a little slower than the last time they'd pulled this move, because he was still holding her when Gibbs tapped him twice in the chest. The impact of the bullets sent him reeling over the edge, his weight threatening to pull her with him.

Gibbs skidded across the distance that separated them – grasping her wrist, hearing her cry of pain but ignoring it as he used his weight as a counter-balance to stop her fall. He heard the thud as Fraiser's body hit the ground somewhere beneath him and couldn't make himself care about the life they had just ended.

He pulled her back from the edge and for a moment she struggled in his grasp – perhaps not realising that she was free. He gripped her shoulders "you're OK," he told her. She stilled, and then looked up at him, blinking as though she couldn't quite believe her eyes. "We got him," he said, "it's all over."

She didn't say anything, though he could feel her trembling beneath his hands. Slowly she leaned forward until her head against his shoulder, her fist curled into the front of his shirt. He let a out a breath and held her just a little tighter, knowing that this wasn't the time or place for more complicated emotions; he was going to concentrate on something simple, like relief. They stood like that for a moment longer, though he saw movement across the roof and knew that Tony and Ziva had arrived and would round the corner at any moment and see them in a moment he would much rather remained private.

He knew there was no way Jen would allow herself to take too much comfort, even in a situation like this. He felt her breathing slow and when she would have pulled away from him, he resisted, easing them to the ground so they were sitting side by side, his arm around her shoulders.

"Fraiser?" she asked.

"Two to the chest and then over the edge," she nodded and then didn't say anything more. The silence was short-lived.

"Boss!"

"We're fine," he said as Tony skidded to a halt in front of them. Ziva went straight to the edge of the roof and looked over, making sure that Fraiser was really dead – probably a good idea. "Ziva,"

"Secure the body," she said, "on it." She turned to go and then stopped and turned back. "I'm glad you're all right Director."

"Thank you Ziva." He suspected the thanks were for more than her good wishes – but he had no intention of asking. Tony had backed off – looking as though he wasn't sure whether he should give them some more privacy or try to help. Still sitting beside him Jen closed her eyes, leant her head back and then sighed.

"You hurt?" he asked, remembering the blood on the knife.

"Bruised and I think I've sprained my wrist. The wine was drugged – sleeping tablets, I'm not sure how much I drank."

"We'll get an ambulance, get you checked out. Do you need help?"

"I am walking out of here on my own." She ground the words out and he smiled at her determination, reassured for the first time since he'd arrived on the roof.

"OK." He got to his feet first, reaching out a hand to pull her up; she moved gingerly as though she wasn't quite sure whether her body would support her.

"You're being stubborn," he observed, but it wasn't a criticism, not really. Couldn't be when it was stubbornness that had kept her alive.

But he understood her reasoning and though Tony stayed within reach and he didn't move his hand from where it rested on her back, she got her wish. The Director of NCIS looked supremely in control as she walked down the stairs and out into the chill night air.

TBC - last part next.


	10. Day 7

Wow** - **so ending this story was a challenge. I'm not sure why, I wanted it to be angsty at the end and it didn't exactly turn out that way - but I'm not disappointed with the ending. Maybe I've just been thinking about it to much. Anyway, thanks for the reviews and for sticking with my first venture into the world of Jen /Gibbs. I think I'll be back - after all it's one of the most screwed up relationships around.

**Seeing Red – part 10**

"How's the red head?" Gibbs wasn't sure when Jen had become 'the' red head in Mike Franks' mind and he was fairly certain he didn't want to know. Mike would never admit it but if this phone call was anything to go by, he was in danger of viewing NCIS' current director with something approaching grudging respect.

"Sprained wrist, a couple of cracked ribs, cuts and bruises. The hospital kept her in overnight and she discharged herself this morning." The hospital had insisted on keeping her under observation because of the sleeping pills and a possible head injury, but it was still something of a surprise that she hadn't put up more of a fight. It was less of a surprise that she'd been at her desk shortly after 8.30 that morning, in the fresh suit she'd arranged for Cynthia to collect.

"And Fraiser?"

"Dead."

"Bet the paperwork's a bitch?"

"It is." There was silence on the other end of the line and Gibbs frowned – wondering what was coming, almost opening his mouth to warn Franks off certain subjects. But it was too late for that.

"And the two of you?" He looked carefully around him, the team seemed immersed in paperwork, but he did not for a moment doubt their capacity to eavesdrop as well. This was hardly the time or the place for this conversation, even though the same thoughts had been plaguing him for most of the day. "Probie?"

"It isn't possible,"

"You're telling me I spent two nights sleeping on the deck for nothing?"

"It wasn't for nothing – but not everyone lives on a beach in Mexico." Mike's snort of derision was obvious despite the distance that separated them.

"You're both idiots!"

"I'll be sure to pass your thoughts on to the Director."

"You do that – and when you speak to her, tell her she's welcome to drop in the next time she finds herself in Mexico," Gibbs hid a smile, definite evidence of a soft spot there.

"I'll mention it."

"You going to be all right?" He hadn't entirely decided about that yet. Letting her go for the second time wasn't something he was expecting to be easy – for all he knew it had to be done. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing her lying on her stomach, sprawled across the bed.

"I'll let you know."

* * *

The phone calls had been coming all morning; offerings of congratulations, sympathy, support - and those who couldn't get through by phone had sent flowers. Her office was overflowing with flowers sent by people who had been too cautious to back her 24 hours earlier. She was keeping a careful note, because she was too good at politics not to take advantage of this sudden rush to be associated with her survival. It was not an ideal way to accrue favours – the fact that they'd have celebrated her fall with the same élan as they were toasting her success was a salient reminder of the world she moved in. Still, if nothing else the last week had taught her who she could trust as well as who she couldn't. 

She'd been carefully avoiding thinking about one Leroy Jethro Gibbs for several hours now, certain it would do her no good to dwell on things much better left alone, knowing that she would have to face him sooner or later. When she looked up to find him stepping through the door to her office it was clear that the moment was now.

"I'll have to call you back," she said to her caller, though in truth she'd stopped paying attention the moment he'd stepped into the room. Carefully she straightened up, ignoring the pain across her ribs as she moved. "Something I can do for you Agent Gibbs?"

"Just checking you shouldn't be at home, or still in hospital."

"I'm all right," his expression was sceptical and she wasn't surprised that she hadn't convinced him. He'd seen her at her worst and the day before had been as bad as it got. "I think the sooner things get back to what passes for normal around here the better, don't you?"

"If that's what you want." It had happened so fast she'd scarcely noticed – yet she was fairly sure he wasn't talking about the agency anymore or not just about the agency.

"Jethro," she began carefully; she didn't want to have this conversation with her desk between them, but at the same time she knew she needed the protection it afforded, the reminder of who they both were.

"It's all right Jen, I understand what 'getting back to normal means,'"

"It's not all right," she said quietly – but didn't dispute his interpretation. She could tell that he'd already imagined this whole conversation, "and I'm not sure I can forget what happened." His expression was suddenly guarded, clearly she had departed from the script he'd written for her. But she wasn't sure she had the courage to start afresh and she knew he wouldn't help her. "It just doesn't change anything."

She couldn't have this. It wasn't possible. Not because getting involved with an agent was a bad idea, though it was, but because it was Jethro she'd be getting involved with. They'd fight, take agency business home with them, keep secrets from each other – and end up with a mess. She couldn't afford that.

"It's OK Jen, give me a little credit."

She blinked and for a moment was lost in the memory of waking to find him leaning on one elbow, watching her in the almost light of early morning. She remembered feeling safe and then desired as his expression changed and he reached for her. It wasn't a memory from the distant past, from tangled liaisons after missions in Europe. The bed she woken in hadn't been in a hotel room in Paris; it had been his bed, in his house, just 36 hours before. She was going to give all of that up for the second time. And they both knew it.

She'd run away from him last time and she doubted he'd believe her if she told him how much it had cost her, how she sometimes thought about what might have been different if she'd tried to stay. It was going to be difficult, seeing him every day, seeing him with Hollis and knowing that she could be the one he went home with, if only she'd been brave enough to try.

Just for a moment she considered telling him that she didn't want to chalk this up to extenuating circumstances; that she wanted to be with him and she didn't care about the consequences. God – he'd probably run a mile.

"What are you thinking about?" He'd asked her that before – or had she asked him?

"Asking that in Mexico was what got us into this situation in the first place." He smirked, looking far too smug.

"I don't think it was the question that did it, you'd already kissed me by then."

"I was thinking how much I'm going to miss you." She'd been aiming for casual but the tremor in her voice gave her away. He ducked his head as though her momentary honesty had disturbed him and she vowed to re-learn the lesson, because he wasn't good at letting people get close and he didn't want to hear about what she felt. But then he surprised her,

"I'm going to miss you as well Jenny." In that moment all hell could have broken lose, worlds collided, the building fallen to the ground around them and neither would have noticed. She could feel the intimacy, though they weren't touching, weren't even that close.

"We can't," she whispered, an answer to the question their bodies and their eyes were asking.

"I know." The glimmer of hope that he'd argue with her, convince her that she was wrong, died. And she wished she had the strength to fight.

* * *

It hadn't been the best of days – paperwork, the closure of the Fraiser case, his conversation with Jen, the sense of losing something he had never really had. It had been a relief to leave it all behind; head home to his basement and the boat. But his memory was traitorous, thoughts of her and the regrets plagued him. 

Should he have argued, fought for her the way he'd fight to protect a member of his team if they were in trouble or, to keep a case if jurisdictional issues threatened to take it out of their hands? He'd fought for Jen when her life was at risk, but he hadn't fought to hold onto her. He hadn't been able to give her what she needed eight years ago and though they'd both changed in the intervening period, he wasn't sure they'd changed enough.

"Damn it!" He slammed his hand against the wood of the boat – frustrated by what seemed to be unanswerable questions. He was relieved to hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs and for a split second hoped it was Jen, come to tell him that she'd changed her mind. But almost immediately he realised how unlikely a prospect that was. He was sure that Ducky saw his disappointment, but his old friend was too wise, or too discrete to call him on it.

"I thought you might welcome this," he said, producing a bottle of bourbon as he reached the bottom of the staircase. "Dare I hope there isn't too much sawdust in the glasses down here?"

"You can always hope," Gibbs watched him pour them both a drink and wondered how long it would take him to get to the reason for his visit. The suspense was too much for him. "What's on your mind Ducky?"

"A number of things Jethro. For instance, how's the Director?"

"You could have asked her that."

"True – but I thought you'd have the necessary insight."

"Well, I don't. You know the Director, she likes to keep her secrets."

"She isn't the only one." He tilted his head in acknowledgement of his old friend's point and wondered, not for the first time, where Jen had learnt that. "Her injuries weren't too serious, but how is she dealing with the whole ordeal – emotionally?"

"I wouldn't know," Ducky looked at him over the top of his glass, his expression mildly exasperated. Gibbs half expected him to echo Mike and tell him they were both idiots. And perhaps they were. "But she's a survivor."

"That she is." This was rapidly becoming another of those conversations full of sub-texts and Gibbs knew that tonight he didn't have the strength for it.

* * *

The house was still and silent and she would have denied to her final breath that it was making her jumpy; but the other explanations for her reflective and pensive mood were equally unpalatable. She gazed into the fire, curled into the corner of her sofa, a glass of red wine within reach. The blanket wrapped around her shoulders was a concession to the fact that it was late and she ought to be in bed. 

Except, suddenly, she didn't want to sleep alone. Her bed was too empty and too cold. This was why she couldn't get involved with him again – why she couldn't give up control. In three nights he'd brought turmoil into her carefully ordered life, if she gave him another inch he'd take a mile, take everything.

It wouldn't work, he'd be disappointed, she'd disappoint him. He wouldn't be getting his old partner, his old lover back. She was the Director and she knew Gibbs, knew he'd hate that part of her life, resent it and, in time, her. He'd be far better off with Hollis, who could be his equal without the politics and ambition he loathed getting in the way. Ruthlessly she pushed away the small voice that pointed out that she might not know him as well as she thought she did. That she was attributing a whole series of emotions to him that she didn't know he possessed – and he'd taught her that assumptions were dangerous. But what else did she have to go on?

She watched the flames dip lower, the day almost over, a day she hadn't entirely expected to live to see. As she'd fought for her life on the rooftop, feeling her strength failing her with every second, she had faced the fact that help might not reach her in time. It hadn't exactly been a moment of revelation; scenes from her life hadn't flashed before her eyes, there were no painful realisations, no questions of what might have lain in the paths she hadn't taken.

Now, without the demands of her office to distract her it was a very different story. Now, she had only silence, shadows and the dying embers for company.

But, the ghosts of four dead women and a dead agent kept vigil with her. Intellectually she knew she wasn't responsible for those deaths, but emotions were unpredictable. Fraiser had sacrificed complete strangers because he'd seen something of her in them. Yet she had lived and they had not. Their deaths were still with her, not quite on her conscience but not forgotten either.

Another good reason to stay away from Jethro. She felt, tainted by what Fraiser had put her through and she wasn't sure that she was in any position to really open up to anyone. She didn't trust herself and Jethro only trusted her some of the time – she was too good at deception, too comfortable in a world of smoke and mirrors and he was wary of her. It wasn't a basis for anything more than an occasional place to shelter.

Whatever was between them should be consigned to the flames, consumed by them. This week was nothing more than an echo of the past – to be let go. She bent her head, knowing that a single tear had escaped her. She hadn't cried through this whole nightmare and she'd be damned if she'd start now.

She dug her nails into her palm and wrapped her arms around her knees. It took all the strength she had to stop herself from picking up the phone and calling him to beg for the third chance she knew she couldn't have.

* * *

It had been a long night; his drink with Ducky had helped, but not enough. Thoughts of Jen had stayed with him – keeping him from the bed where they'd spent their last night together. Throughout the day that followed his temper was short and the coffee more necessary than ever. 

It was lunchtime before he saw her. The paperwork on the Fraiser case had finally been completed to his satisfaction, Tony and the others were down in the lab with Abby and he was contemplating following them. But the prickle on the back of his neck told him someone was watching him and when he looked around she was leaning over the railing just outside her office.

He grabbed the file and climbed the stairs to join her, not sure if he was moving too quickly, or not quickly enough. Was he in a hurry to reach her, or reluctant to confront the way things had changed between them?

Up close she looked tired and he wondered if Fraiser had haunted her sleep, or if he'd been the cause of her restlessness. She was wearing black, which as well as accentuating her pallor, confirmed the rumour he'd heard earlier that morning.

"This is the final report," he handed her the file, "when's the funeral?"

"In a couple of hours," she ran her hand over the strapping at her wrist. "You going to tell me I shouldn't be there?"

"No," he wasn't certain that attending Crosby's funeral was a great idea but he knew she'd made up her mind and that trying to dissuade her was futile. He understood what had prompted her decision; the gesture of respect she thought she owed Crosby – and perhaps she did. She was the Director after all, it was her agency. But if she tried to go to any of the other funerals he was prepared risk her temper.

They lapsed into silence, standing side by side, watching as the agency went about its business. He glanced at her from time to time, wondering if she felt as awkward as he did. "I want you to take a look at this," she said at last, holding out a file to him. Their fingers touched as he took it from her and they both froze. With effort he wrenched his gaze away, flicking through the papers, before looking back up at her when he realised what the file she'd given him contained. "If he is in the country I want him found," she said. "I want him locked away before he starts hurting women, if he hasn't already started." He'd forgotten about the Serbian – but evidently she hadn't.

"What about the jurisdictional issues?" If he was running with the Russian mob, their involvement would be a stretch; the gangs unit wouldn't be too happy with their interference.

"I don't think we'll have to worry." He raised an eyebrow at her confidence.

"Calling in some favours Director?" He winced at how formal her title sounded, but knew he'd have to get used to it.

"It turns out I have a lot of friends this week – I thought we should make the most of my popularity."

"Worried it won't last?"

"Well, you know how difficult I can be."

"Better than anyone." She smiled and raised her eyebrow at him, her expression no longer guarded and he had to clench his fist to stop himself from reaching for her. "Mike called," he said, searching for a new subject and going with the first thing that entered his head, "he wanted to know how you were."

"What did you tell him?"

"That you were fine, that things were back to normal."

"And are they?" He hesitated, not certain what to say in response to that, knowing it was easier not to answer.

"He wanted me to tell you you're welcome to drop in, the next time you're in Mexico."

"It's not likely that I'll find myself on a beach that doesn't have a name anytime in the near future." He'd called it that when he'd wanted her to know that whatever they did there would have no consequences. It hadn't been true then, it wasn't true now. But the reminder was a salient one.

"I'm planning on returning – one of these days."

"Well, perhaps I'll see you there, one of these days." He looked at her, trying to work out what had happened. Were they flirting, or making promises for some indeterminate point in the future? He wasn't sure and she seemed a little shocked by the words that had escaped her. He almost smiled, almost told her that they'd find a way. But he didn't want to ruin the moment, didn't want to risk her changing her mind if the words were spoken aloud. Either it would happen, or it wouldn't.

"I better get going, take advantage of all that good will and political capital."

"I think I can hold off annoying anyone for 24 hours."

"I wish I shared your confidence Director." He lifted the file, "we'll get him."

"I know you will Jethro"

When he reached the staircase he glanced over his shoulder to see what she was doing. She hadn't moved, her gaze was on the bullpen, on the agency. But as he watched a smile curved over her lips, a smile he recognised; a smile that meant she knew he was looking at her - and that she liked it.

Nothing had changed, they'd made no promises to one another, but his gut told him this wasn't an ending – just another turn along the road.

The End


End file.
